


gambling

by ShirosRedKnight (SweetFanfics)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (un)resolved sexual tension, Alternate Universe, Galra Omega Prince Keith, Heat Sex, M/M, Prisoner Shiro, Slow Burn, Smut, consent issues of a non-sexual nature, mild gore/blood and injury, status imbalance, tender fucking, the sex is all consensual, they switch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 02:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/ShirosRedKnight
Summary: Keith doesn’t like being in the wrong. He’d go so far to say that he hates it. But when it comes to the Champion, Keith isdelightedto be proven wrong, because the Champion endures.--Prince Keith is bored and tired of his monotonous life. But everything changes when his attention is caught by the Champion. Maybe this skilled fighter, this human who refuses to be bow under pressure, can finally give Keith what he's been looking for.





	gambling

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many, _many_ moons ago, jyounzu made [this post talking about this idea](https://jyonzu.tumblr.com/post/156460092643/oi-galra-prince-keef-falling-for-that-one-really) and I immediately wanted to write it. Unfortunately, as soon as I wrote the opening scene, I knew this idea would be a BIG one. 
> 
> Due to many reasons, I wound up pushing this project to the back burner. Until like, 2 weeks when I finished my Sheith Big Bang (ITS COMING I SWEAR IT IS ITS BEING EDITED RIGHT NOW!!) and saw this and thought. "Well. Let's finish this then!"
> 
> And here we are lol. The idea which I estimated would be 5k realistically or 9k tops is a whopping 21k!
> 
> I couldn't have finished this fic off without Jini's help, who also happens to be this fic's godmother lol Also massive, _massive_ thanks to star  & aviva for beta-ing this (Thank you guys so much also I'm so sorry for all my mistakes OTL). Shout out my discord gang, y'all put up with all my whining and gave back nothing but encouragement <3
> 
>  **NOTE:** I struggled to explain in the tags that there's a status imbalance between Shiro and Keith. While Keith more or less treats Shiro well, in the end he's still a prince and Shiro a prisoner. Keith does take advantage of this once, overriding what Shiro wants because he doesn't want Shiro to die. He knows that's a shit move to make but he doesn't want Shiro to die.
> 
> That said! Please enjoy :)

There is only so much entertainment to be had on a Galra warship. One can only play so many card games, make so many bets, _train_ so much before one drowns in the dull roar of boredom.

 

Keith has read his entire library many times over. He’s explored every nook and cranny of the massive ship. He’s beaten every Commander on board and has taken to sparring with the AI fighters to feel challenged. Lotor was one of the few people whose skills in combat matched Keith’s and even _he’s_ gone now. Exiled for reasons unknown.

 

(Treason, people whisper under their breath. Keith never listens because it’s not his place to speculate. A good Galra soldier doesn’t indulge in gossip and rumors. He simply follows.)

 

The day he realized he actually looks forward to the weekly strategy meetings, Keith told his personal attendant to strangle him with his own cape. The attendant’s many eyes had flitted around in distress before Keith had sighed and told him to carry on dressing him.

 

Sarcasm is a poor form of humor to have on a warship.

 

But those are the forms of entertainment _Keith_ prefers.

 

There’s also the entertainment provided for the masses in general - that is to say, visiting the Gladiatorial Arena from time to time. Keith typically avoids going, but when it’s held in his _dear_ uncle’s honor, he cannot beg leave. It wouldn’t send a good message to the people.

 

Back to the point, however. Because there are only a limited number of ways to be entertained by, Keith finds himself frequenting the Arena more and more.

 

Seated on a perch above the rest of the crowd, a step lower than Zarkon’s own platform, Keith observes the massacre with little interest. He barely pays attention to the proceedings, unable to find the energy to raise even an eyebrow of interest while Myzax, the Champion, slaughters his way through the ‘tributes’.

 

 _That_ thought twists Keith’s lips into a sneer, showing off the tips of his fangs. Can one even call oneself a Champion when they haven’t been properly challenged? To hold oneself to an esteemed title on the basis of defeating helpless challengers barely able to defend themselves? It is an insult to the title of Champion.

 

 _Pathetic_ , he thinks to himself, watching the sentries drag the bleeding alien out of the ring while Myzax soaks up the adoration of the crowd.

 

“A fine showing,” Keith overhears Prorok saying behind him. Soft murmurs of agreement follow.

 

 _Yes, nothing is quite as impressive as seeing an unfair fight where a brute ruthlessly crushes the insects in his path_ . Chin on his palm, Keith rolls his eyes at the Arena in general. _What if I jumped into the ring and challenged that has-been to a proper duel? I bet I could cut him down to size within- oh?_

 

There’s a scuffle of some kind happening near the gates. Keith watches two sentries slip away off the sands. _A fight amongst the new gladiators_? he wonders, tilting his head in curiosity when he sees the sentries drag a dark-haired Terran out.

 

As he’s tossed onto the sands along with a blade, Keith’s eyes go back to the magenta barrier that has risen. It’s hard to tell but there seems to be another body pressing up against the shield. A friend? Perhaps foe? Someone hurt if the way they stumble back is anything to go by. Or maybe they’ve been dragged back by a sentry. Hard to tell from this angle.

 

His attention returns to the Terran slowly rising to his feet. Someone laughs from behind. Loxor from the sound of it. “This one won’t last longer than two doboshes.”

 

“Care to wager on that?” Keith finds himself asking in a lazy drawl. He’s bored out of his skull. That’s his excuse for betting three veluvium ingots on this stranger.

 

There’s a ripple of amazement when the Terran manages to avoid being crushed underneath Myzax’s weaponized club. Keith wordlessly holds his palm out for his winnings, not willing to admit even _he’s_ surprised this Terran has managed not to die quickly.

 

 _No matter_ , Keith reminds himself as he rolls his winnings around in his hand. _The outcome won’t change just because he’s fast on his feet_.

 

But as the fight progresses, Keith finds his expectations being turned on their head. For once, he finds himself sitting upright and interested in what he’s seeing. He hears himself suck in a sharp breath as Myzax falls with a sound that echoes through the suddenly quiet Arena. In the silence that follows, Keith can almost hear the sound of the victor’s strained breathing.

 

Over the dull roar of static noise that’s taken over his mind, Keith hears a bell chime. A single, clear note that pulls him towards the surface. As the crowd’s shock turns to adulation and wild cheers crowning this Terran their new Champion, Keith takes in a deep breath and murmurs, “Interesting.”

 

“A coincidence,” Loxor grumbles. “Beginner's luck. He won’t last long in the Arena.”

 

In a rare twist, Keith privately finds himself agreeing with the weasley Galran. This is just a coincidence. Myzax was a brute who has been defeated by someone who uses his brain as a secondary weapon. It hardly unusual.

 

Come the next fights, this Terran will fall as well.

 

Such is the fate of _all_ who defy the Galra Empire.

 

\----

 

Keith doesn’t like being in the wrong. He’d go so far to say that he hates it. But when it comes to the Champion, Keith is _delighted_ to be proven wrong, because the Champion endures. He fights, bleeds, and wins.

 

Keith makes it a point to watch his fights, noticing the clear use of strategy to outwit and defeat his enemies. His interest is akin to a large _katte_ observing her prey, watching every move through slitted eyes. Waiting for the perfect chance to strike.

 

Keith watches and waits until his interest can no longer remain contained. He simply _must_ see the Champion up close and understand him. Keith wants to judge for himself if the Terran is a worthy opponent who can truly allay his boredom.

 

At the end of the Champion’s sixth consecutive win, Keith gestures for the sentry guarding him to come forward. Eyes locked onto the small figure being led out of the Arena, Keith tells the guard, “Have the Champion sent to my quarters. After his wounds have been tended to.”

 

The sentry lowers his head. “Yes, Your Highness.”

 

 _How long would it take to heal wounds like that?_ Keith muses once he’s back in his rooms, an open book in his lap. Rather than reading, he stares out of the window in eager anticipation of his meeting. _What kind of personality does he have? What does he value? What does he look like up close?_

 

Two vargas after he’s given the orders, the Champion is escorted into the antechamber.

 

“Your Highness,” the guard interrupts with a sharp rap at his door. “We have brought prisoner 117-9875, as per your instructions.”

 

Keith tucks the numbers away in his head. He’ll go through the records later and see what new details there are to glean about this Terran. Slapping his book shut, Keith stands. He glances at his reflection, wondering if he ought to put his cape on top of his armor.

 

 _Unnecessary_ , he decides. It’s the kind of posturing his uncle prefers. And he is nothing like his uncle.

 

However, before he enters the adjoining room, Keith stands quietly in the shadowed doorway and observes the Terran.

 

The Champion stands between two sentries, hands bound in front of him. He stands tall, sharp eyes taking in every detail about the room. Keith wonders what he’s looking for - a weapon, an exit, a clue as to whose quarters he’s in? All of the above?

 

He has gray eyes and dark hair with a touch of white in the front. He’s tall but not as tall as the Galra sentry guarding him. Muscular stature. It’s the way he stands, however, which _really_ grabs Keith’s attention.

 

His shoulders aren’t bowed under an unseen weight like the other prisoners, his eyes aren’t lowered. No. This Terran stands tall. Cautious and wary, but tall. This one doesn’t hold himself like a slave. He stands a warrior unbroken, uncowed.

 

Interest continues to swirl inside of him, a galaxy being born. The sensation expands and grows when the Terran’s cool gray eyes lock onto him. Keith immediately tips his chin up and takes a step forward. The guard snaps a salute, blaster clinking against his armor.

 

Keith nods but keeps his eyes on the Terran who is studying him. They’re two predators circling each other in this moment. Although, Keith wonders if this Terran understands that. Does he see a pampered Galra prince or the predator that Keith is?

 

He stops just out of arm's reach of the Terran, holding his hands behind his back. In his best nonchalant tone, Keith asks, “Do you know who I am?”

 

The Terran shakes his head without dropping Keith’s gaze.

 

“I am Prince Keith, nephew to Emperor Zarkon.”

 

There is no flare of recognition, only calculated understanding. The only thing this Terran has taken away from his introduction is the fact that Keith is related to Zarkon. Inside his chest, planets begin to form, gathering mass and weight.

 

Keith asks, “Do you have a name?”

 

There’s a pause before the Terran replies, “Shiro.”

 

He’s an attractive looking man - broad shoulders, slim waist, long legs. He’s also got a nice voice. Clear and strong, lacking the deep growl of all Galran voices. It’s almost pleasant. Keith wonders how it would sound under strain. He tilts his head in consideration of the thought _and_ of Shiro.

 

When his eyes return to Shiro’s, Keith catches a flash of disgust that’s quickly snuffed. Shiro hadn’t appreciated the way Keith studied him. The notion makes the prince smirk. Turning towards the small table to his right, Keith speaks, “You fought well today. Have you had formal training?”

 

“Yes.”

 

When nothing follows, Keith pauses with the metal jug in his hand. He raises an eyebrow at the laconic answer. “What kind of training?”

 

“Self-defense mostly. Some weapons training. But mostly hand-to-hand.”

 

The sun being birthed in the center of his chest flares. Its gravity pulls the other planets into line, shaping orbits and planetary paths that will hold them in place.

 

Holding a goblet in hand, Keith turns to the guard standing by the door. “Where is the prisoner being held?”

 

“The East Section. Subsection XI, Corridor 31.”

 

That’s hardly worthy for someone of Shiro’s caliber. Keith takes a long swallow of the amber drink before placing the goblet back on the tray. He picks the jug up again, this time filling both goblets on the dark tray.

 

“You will move the prisoner to the West Section. Subsection II, perhaps IV. One of the bigger cells. Our Champion deserves the finest accommodations as long as he reigns. A room with a view, hot meals, space enough to train. A bed.”

 

A goblet in each hand, Keith steps back towards the Terran, who now watches him as carefully as one would observe a _xip’r_ approaching. His body is tense as a wire, ready to be plucked by artful fingers.

 

Keith peers into those gray eyes and smiles, showing off his sharp teeth. “Wouldn’t you like that, _Shiro_?”

 

Hesitation flickers across the Terran’s handsome face before he reluctantly answers, “Thank you, Your Highness.”

 

“I don’t need your thanks. I only need you to keep _winning_.” Keith holds the goblet out. After a short pause, Shiro accepts with both hands, magenta crackling and buzzing between his cuffs.

 

Raising his goblet, Keith continues, “If you continue to win, you get to keep your little comforts. Perhaps even earn the right to more freedoms.”

 

“Such as?” Shiro asks.

 

“Proper training. Alcohol. Women. Whatever you desire within reason, I’ll see your needs met.”

 

With the faintest narrowing of his eyes, the Terran asks, “Why would you do that?”

 

“Because you’re the best way to alleviate my boredom on this quiznaking ship.” Keith shrugs and lightly shakes the goblet in his hand. “Do you agree to fight for me, Champion?”

 

The Terran stares at him before turning his gaze down at his cup, swallowing harshly before nodding. When he looks up, there’s hard resolve in his gray eyes.

 

Order is achieved in the universe inside of him. Keith smirks and tilts his cup towards Shiro. Their cups meet with a sharp clink.

 

\----

 

Is it a smart move to show that he favors the Champion? Probably not. But Keith does it anyway. That’s the thing about finally finding a spark of excitement in a sea of boredom. It leads taking risks. Keith considers it a risk worth taking if he can keep the flickering flame of Shiro’s life burning as long as possible, even if his hands are burnt in the process.

 

During one of their dinner meetings, his uncle asks him why he’s interested in the Terran.

 

“He’s amusing,” is the only answer Keith offers.

 

Haggar scoffs, a step behind Zarkon’s seat. “The taint in your blood can never be suppressed, can it?”

 

Keith reminds himself it would be bad manners to try to stab the old witch with his knife. Instead he sneers at her and asks, “You would know all about tainted blood, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Enough,” Zarkon warns both of them before staring Keith down. “What do you find so amusing about him? He’s another weak Terran.”

 

“That “weak Terran” currently stands the undefeated Champion.” Keith pauses, transferring a piece of meat into his mouth. He chews on it carefully as he watches his uncle process this before smugly adding, “For ten movements straight.”

 

Their mighty emperor hums at that. “I suppose that makes him worthy of _some_ merit.”

 

 _At the very least he’s keeping me from dying of boredom_ , Keith thinks to himself, eyes glancing down the table. The few Commanders invited to dine with them quietly focus on their meal. He’d expected at least one of them to offer a pithy comment or two, but no one says anything. In fact, they all studiously avoid his gaze.

 

He wonders if they’re rolling over his and Haggar’s comment in their minds.

 

How many Generals and Commanders are aware that Haggar was once Altean? It’s been ten thousand deca-phoebs, but rumors never die. It simply cannot be that some people do not suspect. Especially given the kind of magic the witch does.

 

But it has been deca-phoebs since the fall of Altea. The people who knew about the magic Alteans could do have long since died. Only curious people (or bored, as he was) who had studied banned Altean documents , would know.

 

The more pertinent question is how many of them know that he has a thread of Altean blood in him, courtesy of his mother’s mixed lineage. He’s always been careful to use the Altean gift of changing forms to maintain a Galran appearance, but idle minds love to gossip. They already gossip plenty - after all, he’s an omega prince who insists on being on the front lines with his soldiers during the heat of battle.

 

 _Let them wonder_.

 

Keith does, however, decide it would be wise to clarify his interest in Shiro.

 

 _Risky, risky, risky,_ a voice hisses from the shadowy recesses of his mind.

 

Keith visits Shiro’s cell before his next fight and presents him with a favor. Bold red satin, the color of his mother’s house. Shiro stares at the piece of cloth utterly dumbfounded.

 

“Wear it and the Arena will know you are my Champion. Every fight will be in my name. Each victory an honor.” Keith lifts the thick strip of cloth up and gestures for Shiro to show his arm. The Terran immediately offers his right arm.

 

Gray eyes watch him carefully tie the favor in place, staring at the insignia of Keith’s family before looking up at him. “And if I lose?”

 

“Then you die like a _dah’g_. A disgraced mongrel whose blood is unworthy of staining the sands.”

 

Dull amusement pulls Shiro’s lips up at one corner. “I suppose I should win then.”

 

Ignoring the comment, Keith gestures at the two guards he’s brought with him. He points at the spot before Shiro. “Put the chest down. Let our Champion pick his weapon for his fight.”

 

While Shiro carefully examines each weapon, Keith tells him of his opponent - its strengths and weaknesses ,and potential strategies to bring it down. Shiro selects a glaive, activating it by accident when he touches a button hidden near the handle. He tests the weight of it, blade humming with every swipe.

 

Keith observes the ease with which Shiro handles the weapon. “You’re trained in using this.”

 

“The staff,” Shiro corrects him, peering down at the handle before pressing the rectangular button that activates the blade. The magenta glow fizzles out immediately, allowing the cell lights to gleam on the polished and sharpened surface of the blade.

 

Staring down at the weapons, Keith says, “I’d recommend using the _kaala paa’nja_.”

 

“I don’t know what that is, much less how to use it.”

 

“We need to correct this. After your victory, we’ll talk about a new training schedule for you. You need to be well versed in more weapons than rudimentary ones.” Keith’s not sure why it’s so surprising to him that Shiro doesn’t know what a _paa’nja_ is. Terrans are _so_ primitive.

 

Shiro smirks at him. “ _After_ my victory?”

 

“You either win or you die.” Keith pulls the _paa’nja_ out of the chest and holds the fat dagger's handle out towards Shiro. “Those are the conditions you agreed to.”

 

The Terran transfers the staff to his left hand before accepting the _paa’nja_.

 

\----

 

Shiro is an unusual prisoner. He’s strong, strategic-minded, a quick learner, and while he never stops looking for a way to escape, he makes no attempt to leave. Keith waits for him to take advantage of his situation, however. He’ll readily admit that he’s created quite a few instances where Shiro could have escaped, if he’d tried.

 

But Shiro never does.

 

He doesn’t take advantage of the fact that he’s no longer made to wear restraints when he’s with Keith. He ignores that there’s only one guard with them while Keith teaches him the rudimentaries of basic Arena weaponry. The only times he presses advantage is when they spar. _That’s_ when Shiro keeps trying to make some kind of point. Keith’s not exactly sure what this point is.

 

It could be that Shiro’s a fighter and he hasn’t given up. Maybe it’s the message that he’s strong enough to hold his own against Keith, despite the few inches and bulk Keith has on him. And on a good day, he could overpower Keith and escape.

 

Keith’s not entirely sure, and he doesn’t know enough about the human to make a better judgement. From sparring with him and teaching him, he supposes he knows enough about Shiro to form a baseline impression. But the way Shiro fights creates a different, opposing image of his character.

 

The man has tight control over his anger, only letting it loose on the sands. He’s desperate to survive for some reason. He’s fair. Above all things, Shiro values fairness. He doesn’t stoop to cheap tactics to win. In some ways, he is more Galra than many who sit and observe his fights.

 

It’s interesting. _He_ is interesting beyond Keith’s wildest expectations. A few people, Commanders and a General under his command, inquire about his interest in the man. And Keith always gives them the same reply in a controlled tone of boredom.

 

“He’s an adequate sparring partner with to keep my skills sharp.”

 

The truth, that Shiro is an interesting puzzle he wants to solve, remains his little secret.

 

\----

 

When he was young, Keith shared a tutor with his older cousin. The wispy alien came from a species known to be scholars and was as short as her youngest charge, barely an inch taller than Keith. But she was a stern figure, snapping her whip-like tentacles against their knuckles whenever they would misbehave.

 

She was selected to educate them in all sorts of topics - economics, warfare, psychology, philosophy - and help shape them into future rulers. Lotor was an avid student, greedily soaking in everything she taught with all the grace and manners suitable of an heir to the throne. Keith however, chafed under her tight rule. While he enjoyed discipline, he didn’t like _her_ way of implementing it.

 

Keith vividly remembers a time when she had told him, “Your pride will be your downfall. You are skilled, but overconfidence will kill you.”

 

As a child, he’d scoffed her comment away. Now, however. _Now,_ he may possibly admit she may have had a point.

 

He’d gotten too cocky. He’d make a critical miscalculation which had resulted in Shiro losing his arm during a fight.

 

_His right arm. The one on which he wore my favor. That alien went right for it..._

 

The flame burning in his belly crackles in satisfaction at the knowledge that Shiro had killed the beast at least and ripped a piece of the red fabric off the creature’s many teeth. Shiro had fallen on the blood-soaked sands clutching the same piece of material against his ruined arm. It was currently in Keith’s grip, stained black.

 

He’d hurried down to the holding area as soon as the fight was done, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. His armor felt too tight, constricting his breath with every step. The distance between his seat and the med bay was too much. Had it always been this long? If he didn’t hurry, there was no telling what the Galra in charge might do.

 

There was a high possibility they’d kill Shiro as soon as they laid eyes on him. They’d take one look at his ruined arm and write Shiro off. They wouldn’t understand his worth.

 

They _didn’t_ understand why Prince Keith is so invested in saving the life of a warrior whose dominant arm had been burnt down to the bone by the _saamph’s_ venom. But Keith stares them down, daring them to say a word, to challenge his decision that they _cannot_ kill Shiro.

 

The butchers shuffle in their place, clearly wanting to argue that saving this prisoner was a lost cause but ultimately, remain silent.

 

Keith takes a step closer to the slab upon which Shiro’s laid upon. His face is ashen, body shaking as it struggles not to give into the effects of the alien’s venom. Bile claws its way up, urging Keith to throw up when the smell of Shiro’s rotting right arm wafts his way. He swallows the bitterness down and takes another step forward, forcing himself to look at the ruined arm and judge its state.

 

His heart sinks. It’s a lost cause.

 

 _I should have looked harder into who Shiro was going up against. If I’d had known it was the_ saamph, _I wouldn’t have given him that_ ganite _shield. I would have given him something stronger, something that wouldn’t have melted under that ugly creature’s venom and taken Shiro’s arm with it._

 

If he pays close attention, Keith can see some globs of melted _ganite_ molded against Shiro’s blistering flesh. The urge to throw up rises again when Shiro lets out a pained moan, body arching and writhing in pain.

 

“Sire,” one of the butchers finally speaks up, voice soft. “He is in pain. There is nothing we can do to save him. Not even our best cryopod would be able to repair the damage. And we do not carry the antidote to nullify the _saamph’s_ venom. It would take quintants to make. It would be best to-”

 

“If you know what’s good for you, you will not finish that sentence.”

 

The broad Galra’s mouth snaps shut with an audible clap.

 

Keith struggles not to grind his teeth as he comes to terms with the truth that’s been laid bare before him. There’s no saving Shiro through conventional methods available on this warship. There’s only one very unconventional and very ugly path available.

 

But does he want to go through with it?

 

“Let me die,” Shiro croaks through his split lip.

 

Keith snarls at the dying man, showing him his canines. “You will not die until I permit it.”

 

Ignoring the wide-eyed look he gets in return, Keith turns to the nearest guard and snaps, “ _Where_ is my medic? I told the-”

 

The doors _woosh_ open, bringing with them a haggard looking Galra with a beard and a dark case banging against his broad hips. “Your Highness,” the man pants, sweat dripping down his lavender face. “I was told you were poisoned?”

 

“The prisoner was.”

 

Golden eyes fly to Shiro’s sweating form. He doesn’t say a word, going straight to work after shoving the other medic out of his way.  Keith watches him work, sharp eyes following every move, every vial and device he plucks out of his bag of horrors. His heart slows down, time stretching until it’s held together by thin trembling strands that could break at the smallest stimuli.

 

The tall man makes a displeased noise as the liquid inside his vial changes color, turning an ominous blue shade. “How long ago was he poisoned?”

 

“Half a varga.”

 

He feels like he’s been submerged into a body of water when the medic clicks his tongue. “It’s too late. If he’d been taken to a cryopod immediately after and put into suspended animation, we could have had the time to make an antidote.”

 

“Can we not amputate the arm?”

 

Shiro groans weakly at that. It sounds a lot like disapproval at the idea.

 

Thin lips press together. Keith hopes for a positive response but gets a firm headshake in reply. “It’s too late. The poison has touched his blood. His heart is already pumping it through the rest of his body.”

 

This can’t be how it ends.

 

This can’t be the end.

 

Shiro turns, curling into his hurt arm with a whine that seems to last a lifetime. It pulls sympathy from everyone in the room. While the first medic retrieves a cold ice pack to soothe Shiro’s warming body with, Keith’s own medic slips closer.

 

“Sire,” he begins softly, “it would be kind to put him out of his misery.”

 

Keith bites down on the inside of his cheek, holding down the childish plea that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to give Shiro up.

 

“Is there _nothing_ you can do?” he quietly inquires instead.

 

The man turns to glance at Shiro before shaking his head. “He is beyond the help of any medic onboard, no matter how skilled they are.”

 

Keith’s displeasure must be more tangible than he realizes because the medic pauses before murmuring, “There _is_ one other option.”

 

Keith sharply turns to stare the man down. He flinches, eyes lowering before he says a single word, “Haggar.”

 

A sneer pulls his lips up over his teeth. A snarl rumbles on his chest. He’d rather willingly eat poison than go to the crone for help. Who knows what she’ll ask in return. Worse, who knows what she’ll _do_ to Shiro.

 

“Perhaps she knows some magic that could pull him from the brink of death.”

 

Keith shouldn’t.

 

He can’t trust the old witch. He’s spent his entire life with this belief.

 

Shiro moans his name, voice thready.

 

_What choice do I have if I don’t want him to die?_

 

“Tell Haggar’s druids to expect us shortly. We’re taking him to the witch’s lab.”

 

Somehow, Keith doesn’t choke on his pride as he gives out the order. Loathe as Keith is to be in Haggar’s favor, he’d rather do that than lose Shiro.

 

 _I just don’t want to lose my new favorite play thing, it’s as simple as that_.

 

Maybe if he tells himself that long enough, he’ll actually come to believe it.

 

\----

 

“Save him,” Keith demands the second the doors to Haggar’s lab open.

 

A masked druid peers back, silently floating back to make room for the hovering gurney to come into the lab. Keith sweeps in first, the blood-stained edges of his cloak catching against his boots as he marches in and demands to see Haggar.

 

He catches the attention of every Galra and druid working on their various experiments. Keith hates come to this part of the castle. It feels like something out of a horror story with the jars filled with specimens, subjects strapped to gurneys, and the wicked looking devices that can only do evil.

 

But necessity brings him here.

 

“Haggar!” Keith yells, pleased to note that the guards are hurrying after him with Shiro in tow. He doesn’t look back, too worried that he’ll turn around and find out that the man is dead. “Where are you, old witch?”

 

She bleeds out of a shadowy corner, golden eyes burning under her hood. “What a _pleasant_ surprise, Prince Keith,” the old crone says. “What brings you to my lab?”

 

He gestures at Shiro, “Fix him. Use your magic to mend his arm.”

 

Her robes drag against the floor in a soft whisper. Keith watches her like a _cheel_ as she swiftly examines Shiro’s wounds. He struggles not to snap at her when she carelessly grabs Shiro’s bloodied wrist and twists it, causing the man to gasp and keen. It’s a wonder he hasn’t passed out due to the pain.

 

“His arm cannot be saved,” she finally declares after a painfully long pause. To punctuate her point, she lets go of Shiro’s arm and lets it drop like the dead weight it is. Shiro lets out an agonized yell that reverberates against the metal walls.

 

Keith curls his fingers into fists, limbs trembling. He struggles to keep his temper in check when he hisses, “Use the same magic you’ve been using on Zarkon.”

 

“The effects of the poison cannot be reversed. It is too late. Unless...” Sly golden slits turn to study him. “Unless you are willing to go for a more... radical approach.”

 

“Will it save him?”

 

“There is no guarantee. But if he is as strong as I expect, then he may.” A circle of druids quietly forms around them. Keith’s fingers itch to grab his sword and protect himself. “Do I have your permission to try?”

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

Haggar taps a spot on Shiro’s arm, a few inches under the joint. “We will amputate. Purge him of his poisoned blood, cleanse it, and construct a new limb for him to use. We have been experimenting with replacing neural-based prosthetics with ones that use quintessense to form a deeper bond with the subject.”

 

“No,” Shiro moans pitifully. “K- Prince Keith. No. Don’t let them take my arm. I’d rather die.”

 

Unfortunately, it’s not his choice. Keith ignores the plea, keeping his attention centered on Haggar when he says, “Do it. If he dies, I will hold you personally responsible, witch. You break him, _I’ll break you_.”

 

The crone ignores his warning, turning instead to her druids and giving them a long series of instructions. Before Keith knows it, Shiro’s whipped away to the depths of Haggar’s lab. He’s left standing with the two guards who had come with him and the witch herself.

 

“I will let you know if we are successful. Good day, Prince Keith.”

 

\----

 

 _He’s awake, alive, and not a drooling mindless drone of Haggar’s,_ Keith reminds himself as he stares Shiro down. The human is lying on a table, face turned towards the wall, away from Keith. He’s asleep. Keith’s not sure he’s annoyed or relieved by the inevitable being delayed like this.

 

On the other side of the table, a scientist with red markings on his face quietly jots something down on his tablet before shifting to a different set of machines. There’s a host of machines beeping and spitting out readings. Keith stares at the zig-zagging line that tells him Shiro’s heart is beating strong and second-guesses his choice.

 

The druid who had escorted him hovers by the doorway. “Does our work please you, Prince Keith?”

 

Keith refrains from biting his lip. “Yes.” Keith turns to face the druid. “Where is Haggar? I’d like to thank her personally.”

 

“She is busy at the moment, attending to another matter. I will relay your gratitude.”

 

With a nod, Keith dismisses the druid. Once the cloaked figure is out of the room, he looks at the Galra before him. “How is he?”

 

The scientist looks up, confusion clearing from his eyes when he realizes he is being addressed. Straightening his back, he answers, “Weak, but getting stronger. The bonding procedure took a toll on his body but with a few quintants of rest, he should be ready to fight.”

 

Shiro’s heartbeat spikes. Keith’s eyes are drawn to the back of Shiro’s head. _Is he pretending to be asleep?_

 

He’s awake and ignoring Keith.

 

_Don’t let it get to you. He’s alive and that’s all that matters. He’ll get over his resentment sooner or later._

 

No matter what kind of magic they use down here, he doubt they’ll manage to have Shiro ready for the Arena in a “few quintants.” Keith’s eyes are drawn down to the human’s new arm. It is dull silver in color and completely innocuous in sight. But the druid happily informed him, and Shiro by proxy, that the new arm doubles as an effective weapon as well.

 

Misunderstanding his silence as displeasure, the man hurries to reassure Keith. “We will make sure that he is in fighting form within four quintants.”

 

Shiro lets out a wet noise that sounded like he was suspiciously close to throwing up but had caught himself at the last moment. Keith pretends he hasn’t heard.

 

“No need to rush his recovery,” Keith tells the man. “Make sure that his arm is fully functional and won’t hinder him in any way.”

 

“Yes, Your Highness.”

 

As he glances down, his indigo eyes meet a sliver of gray peering up at him. Shiro _is_ awake. And _angry_. The venom he sees in his narrowed eyes trips Keith’s heart and makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He stares Shiro down, lips thin, unsure of what to say because even after all these days, Keith hasn’t come up with a defense for his actions.

 

Keith nods firmly, ignoring the thought that if Shiro’s resentment was a dagger, Keith would be dead twice over. He turns sharply towards the metal doors and briskly walks out.

 

 _He’ll get over it,_ Keith tells him, repeating the thought over and over again until he believes it.

 

\----

 

Shiro is brought to his chambers on the morning of the eighth quintant, pale and sullen faced but obedient. What little camaraderie that had begun to take shape before the loss of his arm has turned to ash. The taste of it is bitter under Keith’s tongue, chalky enough to turn his mouth dry.

 

He doesn’t regret his actions. He _doesn’t_ . He refuses to accept that he’s regretful that his choice to override Shiro’s desires has smothered the flicker of flame that has sparked to life between them. He’s broken what little trust Shiro had in him and that... _stings_.

 

Keith forces himself to ignore that. Why should he worry over something so small?

 

He’d never wanted to be friends with the human. The only reason he’s taken Shiro under his protection was because he was bored and Shiro is new entertainment. A new toy that hasn’t lost its shine yet.

 

Keith’s going to play with him, get what he wants, and discard him when the time comes.

 

Redrawing the lines between them, Keith sets a new training routine for Shiro and himself. They shift from weapons training to making Shiro proficient in using his new arm. There’s no sharp commentary during their conversations anymore with answering sharp amused grins. There’s no pleased smiles or words of approval when Shiro gets something right.

 

There’s only anger.

 

Keith snaps at Shiro to focus every time he yields to Keith. He snarls whenever Shiro’s new hand presses too hard against his trachea. He snaps his fangs at Shiro when he grabs his white hair and uses it to yank Keith off him. They circle each other on the sand, grappling with each other like animals until one of them falls and cannot get up.

 

He doesn’t think about the fire that ignites deep in his belly every time they fight and he winds up straddling Shiro’s hips. Keith ignores the cool throb of pleasure that lies within his grasp. All he needs is one inappropriate thought, one wrong brush of skin together and...

 

Sometimes he sees the same desire mirrored in Shiro’s eyes, burning behind the anger he taps into during their training sessions. It’s the only emotion Shiro shows him beyond stoic animosity. The first time he sees it, Keith suspects he’s mistaken. Because why would anyone feel anything close to desire when they’ve been pinned to the sands with a blade to their throat. Against a person who has wronged them so deeply?

 

But an “accidental” roll of his hips against Shiro’s as he struggled to free himself and Shiro’s sharp intake of breath changed his mind. The knowledge goes to his head faster than Lotor’s best wine.

 

Now Keith does his best to goad a different reaction out of Shiro, changing the game between them. It’s no longer two angry predators snapping their teeth at each other. Now he’s crouched against the ground, tail twitching with excitement and playful desire. He pounces forward, scenting Shiro quickly before darting out of his reach.

 

And he doesn’t think twice about his actions.

 

It’s much, much later, during a private shower that it hits Keith - he _wants_ Shiro.

 

The thought is shameful as much as it is arousing.

 

His hand drifts down between his legs, stroking himself to full hardness as he tells himself he’s indulging in this fantasy only once.

 

Keith imagines a training session like any other. Only it’s just them. Their chests are bare and breathing ragged. He gets pinned against a wall, both wrists captured between Shiro’s new hand. Keith closes his eyes, recalling the feeling of being chest to chest with the man with a deep sigh. He imagines writhing against the man, feigning a struggle as he grinds their hips together.

 

Shiro would kiss him into submission. Press their mouths together in an unforgiving, biting kiss before freeing Keith’s hands. The kiss would taste just faintly of blood, their lips catching on Keith’s fangs. They would rip each others clothes off, pawing gracelessly at each other as they tried to make the other come first.

 

Would Shiro be gentle? Or would he let his anger steer the ship? Keith imagined battle roughed hands jerking him off with little finesse, focused on winning this new battle. He hangs his head, pressing his forehead against the cold tiles as he imagines muffling his mewls against the meat of Shiro’s shoulder.

 

He comes so fast he’s almost embarrassed.

 

 _It won’t ever happen_ , Keith tells himself as he steps into his room, a towel wrapped around his hips. _You’ve indulged the fantasy and that should be enough._

 

\----

 

It’s always difficult to maintain his composure while the medic tends to Shiro’s wounds after a fight. Usually Keith can maintain a cool exterior but whenever Shiro’s wounded by a species known to use poison against its enemies...

 

“Can you get on with it?” he coldly tells the medic who is futzing around on the other side of the lab.

 

The medic mumbles apologies and scans the numerous bottles of antidote faster. Seated on the slab, Shiro sways slightly. Metal fingers are curled under his elbow, around the tourniquet that’s been tied there to prevent further spread of the poison. In the center of his forearm, a circular wound continues to sluggishly ooze blood, the deep red color having turned inky blue due to the alien’s poison. He doesn’t seem the least bothered by the neon green threads of color that are slowly creeping their way down his arm.

 

In fact, he seems to grow increasingly annoyed by the slow moving medic, who drops a bottle of antidote to the floor and apologizes profusely.

 

“The cure might be worse than the poison in this case,” Keith overhears Shiro mutter under his breath. It’s said so tartly he has to bite his lip to stop himself from barking out a quick laugh.

 

Where’s that sense of humor been all this time?

 

He shouldn’t find it an attractive quality but... well. He does. Keith’s always been considered different amongst his own kind and family. He supposes it makes sense he’d be attracted to someone ‘different’ and unconventional by Galra standards.

 

 _It’s my secret_ , he promises himself.

 

If no one else knows that he jerks off every other night to fantasies of being fucked by the Champion on the sands of the Arena, then there isn’t a problem. No one, especially not Shiro, needs to know about how slick he gets between his cheeks as he imagines taking the human’s cock inside of him and milking him dry.

 

 _Not right now_ . _Keep it together, Keith_.

 

The medic putters back to the bench, shoving a blue vial into a delivery gun with a large needle. Shiro eyes the needle warily before asking, “I can’t drink that?”

 

“It must be injected into the wound for effective delivery. Now, please hold still. This will sting a little.”

 

Keith winces when the medic plunges the needle deep into the wound and presses a button. The pressurized hiss drowns under the guttural noise of pain Shiro lets out. His Galra hand clutches the edge of the metal bench and makes it creak.

 

\----

 

Keith’s got his fair share of issues and character flaws, many of which he’s managed to suppress over the past decafeebs. But there’s _one_ flaw he’s never been able to hammer out, much to his uncle’s displeasure - his hot-headed impulsiveness.

 

His best intentions and plans have often gone out the window because he lets himself be guided by his emotions in the heat of the moment. While his impulsiveness has been a boon in the heat of battle, allowing him to rapidly adjust his strategies, in more mundane situations, it has  led to more dangerous results.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t have self control. It’s just that sometimes, a voice from somewhere deep inside of him drowns his self control out. Keith can’t ever explain this feeling adequately. His brain goes quiet, pin drop silent. There’s no words, no thoughts, only a soul deep feeling pushing him towards completing an action.

 

It’s the feeling that guided his fingers through a complex web of digital files to find the truth about his mother and his heritage. The same feeling that guided him to the feet of a lion shaped robot in a vast hangar in the far corner of Zarkon’s ship in the dead of night. The same unnamed feeling has saved his life through numerous encounters with rebel forces across different sectors.

 

And right now, this feeling is urging him to press his lips against Shiro’s panting mouth for a searing kiss. It’s a sensation that’s been growing in pressure against his lungs for days now - swelling with every training session they wrap up, forcing his breaths to grow shorter by the day.

 

But Keith doesn’t because Shiro’s Galra hand, glowing bright magenta, prickles the underside of his jaw with its electric heat. He grins back, wicked and toothy, as he tightens his knees against Shiro’s hips and presses his dagger harder against the center of Shiro’s chest.

 

A stalemate.

 

They stare each other down, breathing ragged. The training room is dead silent and it makes Keith’s quiet question seem all the more louder, “Do you yield?”

 

“This time,” Shiro murmurs back. The carefully controlled rage in Shiro’s eyes bleeds into a different heat as the glow of his hand slowly dissipates. His hand brushes against Keith’s jugular for a split second, causing his breath to hitch. He waits for Shiro to quietly tell him to move off, but he doesn’t.

 

A shiver runs down Keith’s spine because the knowing look in Shiro’s eyes implies he would only yield to Keith and no one else. Clearing his throat, Keith leans his weight back, keenly aware of the arousal pulsing low in his stomach. It’s an unconscious move to put some much-needed distance between them but Keith miscalculates. He forgets he’s perched on top of Shiro’s hips, and by leaning his weight back, he winds up pressing his ass against Shiro’s crotch.

 

Shiro lets out a quiet but lustful noise in response before stiffening, shameful pink color filling his cheeks as his eyes dart away. A similar feeling rises in Keith. His heart pounds in his ears while his brain scrambles to salvage the situation. Unfortunately, there’s nothing but white static buzzing in his skull.

 

He’s hyper aware of his limbs and where they’re touching Shiro. Keith shivers at the thought that their position ought only be seen in a bed while tangled up in silken sheets. It’s unintentionally teasing, a taunt of “You think you can resist this?” Immediately, his brain whips up a new image of them lying in his bed, in the same position but naked. Keith imagines himself rolling his hips, hoping to goad a reaction out of Shiro.

 

 _Quiznak...I shouldn’t have thought of that_.

 

Keith bites his bottom lip, feeling his dick twitch. Shiro’s eyes are immediately drawn down to his mouth. And then they take their sweet time dragging down Keith’s body and staring at the clear outline of Keith’s dick pressing against his body suit. Keith holds his breath, contently watching Shiro for any reactions.

 

He expects rebuke. Maybe even some taunting. Shiro might even try to defuse the situation by cracking one of his terrible jokes. But there’s nothing but silence. A question forms on the tip of his tongue as Shiro continues to stare him, pressing against the back of his teeth the longer the human remains silent.

 

_Aren’t you going to do something?_

 

A blink and Shiro’s gaze is locked with his. There’s a tentativeness there that steals Keith’s breath, more than the lust he can see burning in the depths of those gray eyes.

 

 _He’s not going to make the first move_.

 

Keith’s hand twitches, carefully moving to plant one palm on top of Shiro’s chest. Exactly where he’d pressed the tip of his dagger. He waits, quietly hoping that Shiro will reciprocate in kind. Anticipation has his heart speeding up until it’s pounding against his ribs. The world swims for a moment when Shiro raises his hand and cups his jaw, thumb pressing firmly against his chin.

 

He’s beyond grateful for two things - that his private training room isn’t monitored and that there’s no guards within the room.  It’s just him and Shiro, standing on a precipice. A deep hunger whose presence Keith hadn’t even been aware of until this moment takes over. He leans his weight into his right arm, using it to steady himself as he grinds his ass into Shiro’s crotch, wanting a reaction. He gets a stifled moan and a sharp look.

 

Keith meets gray eyes steadily, planting his other hand on Shiro’s chest and rolling his hips again with greater deliberation. It’s a blatant invitation if he’s ever given one. His gut turns molten when he feels an answering twitch against his cheeks.

 

Heat flares in his cheeks when Shiro doesn’t react, sudden shame filling him. Keith’s never been this shameless with anyone before. He’s ready to collect the broken pieces of his pride and head back to his room, scolding himself for letting his fantasies get the better of him, but Shiro suddenly surges up, fingers sliding deep into Keith’s white hair.

 

Keith’s eyes fly open, catching the fire burning in Shiro’s eyes before their lips connect. It’s a hard kiss. Unforgiving and unyielding, desperate and hungry. It tastes exactly how Keith fantasized it would - spit-wet and a little bloody.

 

It’s a different kind of fight that follows. Their hands scramble to undress each other, to touch every part of each other. Keith feels too small for his skin, which is a peculiar feeling in and of itself considering he has the ability to change his form. But he knows that changing how he looks won’t change how he feels. He’s over-heated, dizzy, and scrambling to keep up with his lustful desires. Keith tells himself to remain centered in reality, to push away his comparisons with all the fantasies he’s had of having sex with Shiro.

 

The heady truth of the matter,however, is that Shiro is exactly like he’d fantasized. Maybe even better because this is _real_. Keith can touch, kiss, taste to his heart’s desire and know its happening. His hands squeeze Shiro’s impressive muscles, learn the ticklish spot over his ribs, and memorize the size of him in his palm. That knowledge is mind blowing for some reason.

 

Keith stares at the sight of his hand holding Shiro’s dick and marvels at how _thick_ the man is. In a daze, he pulls on the hardened flesh. Over and over again, uncaring of the sounds that spill from Shiro or how his body tightens until finally hot, white seed wets Keith’s fingers. The hard arch with which Shiro comes threatens to dislodge Keith from his position. It’s only Shiro’s hands on his hips which hold him in place. Keith hisses at the force of the grip, exhaling in relief as Shiro’s fingers slacken.

 

He takes a moment to appreciate the sight of Shiro sprawled before him. The ruddy blush on his face, the sweat-soaked white forelock, his heaving chest. Shiro is a beautiful sight. Keith reaches out to touch a drop of sweat making its lazy way down Shiro’s jaw and pauses, making a face at his cum-stained fingers. His first instinct is to wipe his fingers clean. But that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?

 

Keith tentatively licks the base of his index finger and is surprised by the clean, salty taste of Shiro. He messily cleans his fingers, lapping up as much of the release as he can. Keith’s sucking two fingers clean when Shiro lets out a pained noise. 

 

A shiver runs down Keith’s spine when he looks down. Stormy gray eyes stare him down, filled with disbelief and lust. Keith slowly takes his fingers out of his mouth, wondering if he’s done something wrong. Before he can even breathe, Shiro’s flipping them over and kissing him again, stealing Keith’s gasp off his tongue.

 

The sensation of Shiro’s tongue running over his own makes Keith moan pitifully. He wants to tell Shiro to stop. Surely he doesn’t want to taste his own cum? But Shiro only deepens the kiss, like a starving man drinking his fill at an oasis. Weakened, Keith clings to his arms, whimpering again when thick thighs force him to spread his legs.

 

Keith’s the first to break apart, gasping for air as his lungs burn. He struggles to say Shiro’s name, moaning senselessly instead as a warm hand gently touches his neglected hardness. A cry threatens to fall out of his mouth. Keith barely muffles it with one hand. It rumbles deep in his chest as Shiro wraps his fingers around Keith.

 

His touch is unforgiving, stripping pleasure from Keith until he’s a breathless, limp mess against the floor. Shiro teases him mercilessly, bringing him to the edge twice before pulling back to tease his tightened balls. His kisses are sharp things that make his lips tingle with pleasure-pain. And when Keith gasps, Shiro’s tongue is there, tracing Keith’s fangs so delicately it makes Keith gasp.

 

Keith strives to return the favor and impress his impatience for Shiro’s methods by dragging his clawed fingers against Shiro’s back. Squeezing the man’s firm ass as he breathlessly asks, “Stop teasing me and make me come!”

 

“Is that what you want, _Your Highness_?”

 

 _Quiznak._ How dare Shiro bring his title up at such a moment? How _dare_ he say it in such a lust-hoarse tone? Keith tries to glare at the human but the sight of Shiro smirking down at him is his undoing. He squeezes his eyes shut, nodding frantically because yes, yes, _yes_ . Keith wants to come so badly it _hurts_.

 

Release, when it comes, hits him with all the force of a landslide. Keith’s claws dig into Shiro’s shoulders, desperate to stay in this moment. To not lose himself in this incredible flood of pleasure that’s taking him over. What brings Keith back, is the shocking realization that Shiro’s whispering to him.

 

The words don’t make sense but they’re soft and comforting, gentle encouragement peppered with soft kisses to his neck and face. Somehow, that gentleness stretches Keith’s orgasm to the limits. It helps make this arguably the most intense orgasm Keith’s had _ever_.

 

White fades quickly into black. A gentle numbness spreads through him. The feeling is reminisce of floating in a large body of hot water but _better_. Keith comes back gradually. His limbs are still tingling with pleasure when he opens his eyes.

 

Shiro’s watching him with an an odd intensity. It’s not uncomfortable as much as it’s puzzling. They peer at each for a long, long moment before Shiro murmurs, “We should...”

 

Quietly, he nods, trying not to feel bashful or embarrassed when Shiro offers him a towel to clean himself up. Keith thinks back on that look after they’ve hastily cleaned up and are putting their clothes back on.

 

There had been anger in Shiro’s eyes. That had been easy enough to identify; Keith’s been on the receiving end of Shiro’s angry looks often enough. But there had been an odd emotion as well. Something he struggles to describe it.

 

Perhaps surprise? Shocked wonder? Confusion?

 

Mid-way through pulling his body suit back on, Keith shoots the human a discreet look over his shoulder. Shiro’s back is to him as he’s pulling his own suit up over his arms.

 

 _Maybe he didn’t expect this would happen_.

 

Keith makes a face and finishes doing his suit up before he reaches for his dagger. He can’t say he doesn’t feel the same as well.

 

 _It’s just this once_ , Keith tells himself as he watches the guards step into the room and lead Shiro back to his cell. _Now that I’ve experienced what he’s like, I can move on_.

 

\----

 

Arguably Shiro’s worst quality is that he’s made a liar out of Keith. Thankfully, no one else is aware of this except Keith but still he worries about his self control and how easily he’s being led around the nose by his lust.

 

Keith presses the crook of his elbow harder against his eyes, struggling to control the sigh building in his chest. He’d thought their rut during that one training session would have been enough to rid him of his infatuation with the gladiator.

 

But rather than being water to douse the flames, it’s been an accelerant. One taste has sparked a bone-gnawing hunger he desperately attempts to satisfy - but it’s never enough. The only thing which soothes his pride is that a similar hunger has been awoken in Shiro.

 

As he soaks in the hot water, enjoying a luxurious bath, Keith wonders if Shiro dreams of him like Keith dreams of him.

 

Keith has had countless dreams of calloused hands running over his body, of cum-slick lips parting his own and feeding him his own bitter-hot release, of a hard cock thrusting into him over and over again until Keith keens into the sheets, of Shiro teasingly running the tip of his tongue between Keith’s cheeks, teasing him until he’s heat-slick.

 

The water ripples in the tub as Keith tiredly rubs his eyes with his index finger and thumb. They’re dancing with something unnamed but undoubtedly dangerous. It’s madness, pleasure-induced madness. That’s the only sensible explanation.

 

There’s nothing else that would encourage Keith to act as recklessly as he is. The mere fact that he habitually goes down to check on Shiro after a fight has birthed so many rumors. Keith’s loathe to ask what people would say if they knew that he’s given his private guards orders to discreetly bring Shiro to his chambers after his fights.

 

Why does he do that?

 

Because at the end of each fight, there’s a wildness in Shiro’s eyes. Something reckless and desperate for release. And Keith wants to be the one to give him that. He takes intense pleasure in being the one whose dick Shiro rides with reckless abandon to completion that leaves him happily exhausted.

 

He is so beautiful in the throes of desperate pleasure. Keith’s never seen a creature as beautiful as Shiro when he’s straining every part of him towards the pinnacle of sweet release. The strain in his arms as he struggles to remain upright, the flex of his thighs as he bounces on Keith’s dick, the sweet manner in which he begs...

 

“Fuck me,” Shiro will breathe against his mouth, legs spread obscenely around Keith’s hips. “I want to feel your cock deep inside of me, making me feel _so good_.”

 

After a fight, Shiro is always desperate for something. Keith never asks what Shiro’s striving towards after a fight, he quietly gives him pleasure instead. Many times, he lets Shiro take the lead, happily watching Shiro prep himself and take Keith in, or sigh as Shiro’s fingers stretch him open.

 

As such as Keith loves the sight of Shiro taking him inside, Keith must admit he loves it when Shiro takes him after a hard fight as well. He’s utterly ruthless, keeping Keith pinned to the bed as he uses him. Keith’s always left sore at the end of those meetings.

 

Shiro always apologizes quietly those nights but Keith waves his apology off with a smile. Smirking instead as he asks Shiro to make it up to him by cleaning Keith up with his tongue and wicked mouth.

 

Keith squirms in the bath at the memories, telling himself he’s _not_ going to jerk off in the tub at the memory of Shiro’s tongue teasing his slick entrance. He’s got more self control than that.

 

_If that were true you wouldn’t be fucking him in a dark corner of his cell after a fight every other week._

 

He roughly shoves that thought out of his head. That’s not something he’s going to think about right now.

 

But it’s too late. Keith’s already thinking about the last time they’d fucked in the temporary cell Shiro had been put into. Keith had slipped into the holding area, disguised as a guard so as not to catch anyone’s attention. Shiro had been merciless. He’d pinned Keith’s hands over his head, biting the straining muscles of Keith’s neck, hips rolling to reach that place inside that made him want to _scream_ with pleasure.

 

The fact of the matter is, Keith doesn’t want to do anything to stop this... _thing_ between them. He’s enjoying himself far too much. He’s fascinated by the change in their dynamic, and he’s not just talking about the sex. Their daily training sessions have changed in tone as well.

 

While the banter they exchange while trading blows is still cutting, it’s flirtatious more than cutting now. They’re both aiming to drag reactions out of each other of a very different kind. And they play dirty now, so _very_ dirty.

 

Inarguably, the most enjoyable part is that neither of them hold back. Not that they held back before, either, but it’s different now. Before, they both would take care not to injure the other. Now, Keith drags the tip of his dagger against Shiro’s body suit, lazily cutting the material off while Shiro grits his teeth and refuses to admit defeat. Shiro will press his glowing hand against the back of Keith’s suit, melting the zipper with his grip while Keith holds back a hiss.

 

Mumbling the curse Shiro seems so fond of, Keith gives up and lets his hand slide down between his legs. He closes his eyes with a sigh as he curls his fingers around his chubbed up cock, hips thrusting into his grip at the memory of Shiro whispering filthy provocations into his ear.

 

“Fuck,” Keith groans, hating how Shiro left only a varga ago and Keith wants him again.

 

\----

 

The door chirps in warning before it slides open. Keith’s turns away from the starry view in front of him. He waits for the attendant, Navi to straighten up out of his greeting before asking, “Did the medic send his report?”

 

“Yes, Your Highness.”

 

He walks up to Keith, holding out an opaque tablet. Keith accepts the device with one hand and waves the man out with the other. Once Navi has left, Keith skims through the report.

 

According to his medic, there’s nothing physically wrong with Shiro. There were a few wounds and lacerations, nothing out of the ordinary. There’s always some hurts that need tending after a successful fight. But they’ve all been healed, and Shiro’s been taken back to his cell.

 

Frankly speaking, it’s the same report he gets after any of Shiro’s victories. But this time, an odd worry gnaws at Keith.

 

There had been something odd in Shiro’s eyes when Keith had gone down to check on him post-victory. A strange blankness which caused Keith concern. He’d quietly asked the medic to run a thorough diagnosis on Shiro but... it looks like his worries were for naught.

 

But reading the doctor’s report does little to soothe his concerns. Keith steps out of his room, calling out, “Navi”

 

His attendant hurries back into the bedroom. “Bring the Champion here.”

 

With a quick bow, the alien hurries out. In the 15 doboshes it takes to bring Shiro to him, Keith continues to look for an answer that’s frustratingly out of his reach. He pulls up a recording of Shiro’s fight in search of clues.

 

But there’s nothing - from start to finish it’s a clean fight. The only questionably odd part is in the beginning.

 

Typically, any Arena fight begins as soon as the opponents are within each other's reach. In Shiro’s case, he waits for his opponent to make the first move. He takes some time to learn what he can about his opponent before striking back. Collect data, formulate a strategy, then attack.

 

In today’s fight however, Shiro had frozen in place when he’d seen his opponent walking out.

 

Keith’s trying to make sense of that pause when Navi slips back into his room. “The Champion is here.”

 

“Bring him in,” Keith says, putting the tablet down.

 

Regardless of where he is, Shiro has a certain presence. It’s not his height or impressive build, but something in the way he carries himself that pulls attention towards him. There’s a quiet magnetism to him which draws people in. But in this moment, as he walks into Keith’s bedroom, Shiro’s presence is muted.

 

Keith tells the guards, “Leave.”

 

The second they’ve turned their back to him, Keith’s walking up to Shiro. They stand toe-to-toe, Keith’s dark concerned eyes peering into the human’s gray ones. There’s nothing there. Shiro’s as distant as they are from the Xil’n nebula - millions of light years away.

 

Keith carefully touches Shiro’s chin, rubbing his knuckles against the line of his jaw. It’s a gesture he remembers his mother sharing with him when he needed comfort. He opens his fingers and slides them up against the soft buzz of Shiro’s cut hair. Keith hopes the comforting touches will cut through the fog that’s blanketed Shiro.

 

Shiro’s eyes fall shut, hiding from Keith. At the same time, he turns his face into Keith’s comforting touch. Unsure of what to do, because he hasn’t given or received gentle comfort for so many decafeebs, Keith flounders.

 

Hesitantly, he takes hold of Shiro’s face and asks, “What is it?”

 

There’s no answer. Shiro’s shoulders droop, body swaying before he leans forward, forehead pressing into the vulnerable curve of Keith’s shoulder. Alarmed and confused, Keith’s hands fly up around Shiro’s body as more weight falls on him. He lets out a startled noise when Shiro’s hands curl around his back and _cling_ to him.

 

Keith struggles to make sense of what’s going on. What could have happened to provoke such a response in Shiro?

 

“I killed her,” Shiro finally whispers. The crack in his voice breaks something inside of Keith, causing hurt to spew out as Shiro continues, “She was in the cell with me when I arrived. She’d been kind to me. Shared her food with me. And I killed her today because I didn’t want to die.”

 

Oh.

 

That explains everything.

 

Uncomfortable and out of his depth, Keith stays silent. All he can do is soothingly rub Shiro’s back. He’s grateful that Shiro doesn’t say anything more or ask him to contribute. Because Keith’s got nothing. He knows that there’s no words soft enough or gentle enough to soothe this particular hurt. And anything he would say would be false platitudes. It wouldn’t be genuine comfort.

 

Meanwhile his brain screams bloody murder at him, demanding explanations for his actions.

 

 _What are you doing? What. are. you. doing_?

 

Fear swirls inside of him like miasma because he doesn’t have an answer to that all important question.

 

\----

 

It might as well be his new mantra in the weeks that follow. His instincts, which have been unfailing to date, are guiding him down a dangerous path. He could stop at any given moment. Keith _should_ stop following his gut.

 

But he always hesitates to do so.

 

Like he’s said, unfailing instincts.

 

Keith can’t recall a time where his gut _hasn’t_ saved him. So when there’s a feeling deep inside of him urging him to curl his arm around Shiro’s body and pull him closer, Keith does so. Even though it goes against the patterns they’ve established.

 

He cracks one eye open just enough to stealthily gauge Shiro’s reaction. The human is peering in confusion at Keith, doubtlessly wondering what’s changed that they’re _cuddling_ after having sex. Keith hopes he isn’t flushing and sighs, pretending he’s on the verge of falling asleep and cannot control his bodily actions.

 

Shiro lies stiffly against his side for many long moments. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Shiro was bracing himself for... something. Keith maintains his measured breathing and keeps up the pretense, waiting for Shiro to relax. He has to wait a long time but Shiro eventually relaxes, matching his breathing with Keith before finally dozing off.

 

Then, and only then, does Keith open his eyes to properly look at Shiro.

 

It feels like he’s looking at him for the first time. Has he been looking at Shiro without paying attention up until now?

 

Keith traces the brow, smooth of all worries, in wonder. _Strange... was he always so young looking? Was his face always so sharply defined?_

 

The more he examines Shiro’s peaceful face, the more worries gnaw at Keith. Has Shiro been sleeping enough? Eating enough? How old is he anyways? Unbidden, more worrisome questions rise up as well. The kind of questions he wishes to ask but isn’t sure if Shiro will want to answer.

 

Keith presses his lips against Shiro’s forehead and exhales quietly. He wants to say he’s not going to make a habit out of this but Keith’s got the funny feeling he’s going to prove himself wrong.

 

\----

 

If asked, Keith would say their relationship changed due to two things: Shiro’s quiet breakdown in his arms and Keith finishing the job of breaking the walls down between them by embracing Shiro after their usual sex.

 

While they still indulge in adrenaline fueled sexcapades that push them both to their limits, the aftermath has dramatically changed.

 

And Keith does very much mean _dramatically changed_.

 

This is what happened before.

 

As soon as either of them had gathered his wits after coming, they’d get out of bed, take a quick shower, dress, and part ways. Typically, in complete and utter silence. The only thing said would be inquiring who wanted to use the shower first. Pleasures of the flesh, that was the comfort shared between them. And even that, Keith hesitated to call it a “comfort” considering how rough they got.

 

But now...

 

Now there are countless kisses, curious but soft touches, lingering in the wake of their mutual orgasms as long as they can before reluctantly slipping out of bed. Now they watch other leave, following the other hesitantly into the hot tub, knowing how tremulous this new ground is. Much of their time together is filled with silence still, but it’s less awkward now. Less chilly.

 

Keith’s the one who broaches the matter of them sharing a bath together, and also breaks precedence of their meetings always leading to sex, when Shiro comes to his room, blood still clotting his hair. Keith remembers the moment like it were only yesterday.

 

The human sheepishly scratches his short hair. Dried blue flecks float to the floor. “I tried to wash it out but...”

 

Shaking his head, Keith turns towards the bathroom. He pauses at the doorway before asking, “Aren’t you coming ?”

 

He makes Shiro strip and soak in the bath while Keith himself sits on the ledge behind him, scrubbing furiously at Shiro’s hair with a special mix of salts and shampoo that’s supposed to get even the worst alien gunk out of one’s hair. He doesn’t realize Shiro’s dozing off until it’s time to wash the suds out.

 

Shiro’s lax body tips to the side. Keith jumps in surprise, staring in confusion at Shiro’s cheek pressing against his thigh. It takes a little maneuvering but when he catches sight of the human’s face, Keith mutters, “This can’t be happening.”

 

Honestly speaking, he isn't sure where the shock is coming from. It isn't the first time Shiro has fallen asleep in his presence. But it’s definitely the first time it’s happened without sex being in the equation. It’s the implication of the act. Did the man really trust Keith so much that he’d relaxed to the point of falling asleep? It was unbelievable. Keith just didn’t know what to do with himself.

 

It’s a situation Keith wants to take advantage of. And when Shiro wakes up scant doboshes later, his curiosity uses the opportunity to satisfy itself.

 

He asks Shiro all the questions he’s been dying to ask - Is Shiro his real name? Where is he from? What’s it like? Does he have family?

 

Shiro answers most of his mundane questions and remains silent on others. Keith appreciates the former and respects the latter. Naturally, he reciprocates the trust that is placed in him and shares tid bits from his own life, of the Galran way. Shiro absorbs all the information quietly, making inquiries here and there but for the most part, is content in listening to Keith.

 

 _It’s strange_ , Keith muses as Shiro happily nuzzles his nose deeper into Keith’s silver hair. _He’s a prisoner, and yet he feels more my equal than anyone else I’ve ever known._

 

By this point, Keith’s stopped questioning what he’s doing. He’s pushed that annoying question and worrisome voice away, opting instead to be hedonistic. To be selfish. Keith doesn’t openly acknowledge that whatever it is he’s got with Shiro is short-lived. But he knows it.

 

So why not enjoy it for all it’s worth?

 

Shiro is a rare flower he’s found blooming in a vast desert. The least Keith can do is try to extend its life as much as he can before the heat takes it.

 

\----

 

Perhaps the strangest part about their whole arrangement is that they trust each other now. _Truly_ trust each other.

 

Keith welcomes his touch against his bare back when they’re in bed or in the bath together. His smiles are warm with pleasure when they’re alone. Their kisses are gentle. He makes his claws fade into blunt fingernails, raking them gently across Shiro’s scarred back as they mate.

 

When they’re done and Keith’s dozing off with his cheek against Shiro’s chest, when Shiro takes hold of his hand and studies his lack of claws, Keith sleepily confesses, “I’m not full Galra you know.”

 

It’s the culmination of all their experiences that has Keith confiding his most important secret against Shiro’s heart. He wills his form to change - his fangs and claws to grow blunt, hair to darken, size to shrink, and the deep lilac tone of his hand to fade until it’s the same hue as Shiro’s.

 

Keith cautiously opens his eyes, uncertain of what to expect.

 

Shiro surpasses his expectations by rolling a few strands of Keith’s dark hair between his fingers in wonder. “Can all Galra shape shift?”

 

With a small smile, Keith shakes his head. His explanation is simple if only because he only knows the bare bones of the truth. His mother was Zarkon’s step-sister and part Altean, the only one of his siblings to survive the destruction of the Galra home world. It’s that Altean blood that allows him his shifter abilities.

 

“Altean’s have the ability to change how they look.” Keith shrugs when Shiro asks for specifics. “But I can't grow a third arm or a second head. I can only change how I look - make myself taller or shorter, change the color of my hair and skin.”

 

It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but Keith’s wound up making himself look like Shiro, like a Terran. In this form, he’s smaller than Shiro - not as broad shouldered or as tall. Keith wrinkles his nose when they press palms together and Shiro’s hand is larger than his. It’s strange but ... comforting. 

 

“How come you can change the way you look then?” Shiro quietly asks.

 

Keith tonelessly recites the story Zarkon had told him and Lotor had lorded over him. His mother had betrayed the empire twice over - once by fathering a son with a commoner out of wedlock and second, by rebelling against Zarkon.

 

He stares at their hands, tentatively linking their fingers together before murmuring, “Sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“That wasn’t a happy story.”

 

Cool relief washes over him as Shiro’s fingers tighten. His heart aches at the soft whisper Shiro presses against Keith’s forehead. “Thank you for trusting me.”

 

They lie tangled together until they fall asleep. When he wakes up, it’s time for Shiro to go. By that point, Keith’s ready to believe he’d dreamed up telling Shiro the truth. But before he leaves, Shiro hesitates. He pauses in the middle of the bedroom, turns around and says, “Can I ask you something?”

 

Keith nods, expecting Shiro to ask why he’s trusted him so much.

 

But instead, Shiro asks, “What’s an omega?”

 

He blinks in surprise at the unexpected question. “You don’t know?”

 

Shiro shakes his head.

 

“Where’d you hear it then?”

 

“I...” Shiro hesitates, voice softening before he continues. “I heard one of the guards call you an omega prince one night.”

 

 _Figures_.

 

Keith’s tempted to ask _which_ guards just so that he can make them pay. But he doubts Shiro knows. As intelligent as Shiro is, Keith doubts he can tell one Galran guard apart from another when they’re suited up. So instead, he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose to keep his angry response down.

 

“I’ve got a book that will explain it better.”

 

It’s a children’s book he’s held onto out of sentimentality - a rare gift from a strict tutor. It explains in the simplest of terms the basics of Galran biology, including the alpha, beta, omega hierarchy.

 

Keith holds the slim book out towards Shiro. “This will explain much better than I can.”

 

Shiro accepts the book like he’s being given a treasure. It occurs to Keith that this might be the first reading material Shiro’s had in awhile. Immediately, Keith wants to kick himself for not offering Shiro more. Hadn’t he promised to give Shiro whatever he wanted?

 

“If I have any questions, I’ll ask you?” Shiro asks, hopeful eyes catching Keith’s.

 

With an agreeable nod, Keith changes his form back to his usual Galran get-up and tells Navi to bring the guards who will escort Shiro back to his cell. Shiro, meanwhile, grabs the heavy cloak he wears to disguise his appearance. It's a poor attempt to keep this thing between them under wraps.

 

But before he puts it on, he pauses and gives Keith an inscrutable look. It makes Keith feel like he’s being seen through. He crosses his arms uncomfortably and asks, “What?”

 

Shiro waits a beat. To Keith’s surprise, the softest tint kisses the tips of Shiro’s cheeks before he says, “You look better when you’re not Galra.”

 

His eyebrows fly high in surprise. The compliment is unexpected and sweet. Shiro hurriedly pulls the thick material on, hiding his face and body from Keith before hurrying out to the antechamber.

 

\----

 

“So, about the book you gave me...” Shiro begins as he sits cross legged on the training deck floor next to Keith. “I finished reading it.”

 

Keith pours a glass of cold water over his overheated head with a satisfied groan. He shakes his head like a dissatisfied cat before peering at Shiro. “And?”

 

“Speaking as a human, Galran biology is _weird_.” Shiro shakes his head with an odd expression that draws amusement from Keith. “I mean. Going into ruts and heats? That’s really primal.”

 

He can’t help but hum in approval. “Many people hold the same opinion. But there aren’t that many omegas and alphas out there now. The vast majority of the Galra are betas.”

 

Shiro’s gaze sharpens. “But you’re an omega.”

 

“That’s right.” Keith’s lips twist into a sneer. “The first omega prince to be born in a hundred decafeebs, if you can believe that.”

 

“There’s not a lot I wouldn’t believe now,” Shiro mumbles under his breath before asking in his normal voice, “A lot of people don’t approve, do they?”

 

Keith plants both hands behind him and leans back on them. “No. In many, many ways, the Galran society is painfully archaic and backwards. The foundation of Galran society is strength. And that’s not a quality traditionally associated with omegas.”

 

Gray eyes trail over his naked torso. One dark eyebrow rises high before Shiro asks, “You’re not considered strong? Even though you’re the strongest fighter in this entire army?”

 

As flattered as he feels, Keith’s smirk is still tinged with anger. “That doesn’t override me being an omega.”

 

It doesn’t matter how many accolades he won, it will never be good enough in the eyes of most Galra. Being an omega is a stain that he’ll never be able to wash off. Not that Keith ever tried to erase or deny his status...

 

Shaking his head lightly, Keith turns to face Shiro. “Is that all you want to ask?”

 

Shiro takes a careful sip of water from his own glass. Color rises up his cheeks in the wait. Keith smirks again, amused now. “Do you want to ask about my heat?”

 

The man goes into a coughing fit immediately and Keith grins at the dirty look he gets.

 

 _Bullseye_.

 

“Since you brought it up...” Shiro rasps.

 

Snorting, Keith shifts up to his knees. He moves to straddle Shiro’s lap, a deep purr rumbling in his chest at the ease with which Shiro accepts him. “What would you like to know? When will my heat start? What does it feel like?”

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

 _Ah~ah_ . _After all this time together, I should be used to how Shiro keeps defying my expectations._

 

Keith blinks in surprise before nodding. Shiro’s frown in response, is deep and unhappy. Keith cups the back of Shiro’s head to keep his attention. “Not in the way you think. It’s more of a bone deep ache that won’t go away until I’m satisfied.”

 

_Come to think of it. Isn’t it round about that time?_

 

He looks away, frowning a little as he tries to add the dates together. It should be, right? His heat should be close? Keith needs to check but...

 

Looking back down into Shiro’s curious gray eyes, Keith smiles. It’s a slow, sly thing that has Shiro’s hands tightening on his waist.

 

“Would you like to see for yourself?”

 

\----

 

Has Keith talked about the many perks that come with being a prince? Sure, there’s a lot he hates about being a prince, but there are several benefits as well. For example, Keith greatly appreciates the fact that neither he nor Shiro have to roll around in the same set of soiled sheets for his entire week.

 

Because he’s a prince, Keith has his own staff of attendants who quickly and discreetly whisk into his room when they’re cleaning up and change the sheets. Because he’s a prince, he gets to keep Shiro to himself for a full week without caring of the commanders and generals who grumbled that the fights would be dull without the Champion. Because he’s a prince, Keith can afford the luxury of closing his eyes to the truth for a few days.

 

For six quintants, Keith happily drowns in Shiro with no intent of breaching the surface. The little bubbles of sanity that appear in between the heat fever are carved into his memory, playing out in his mind’s eye when he awakens on the seventh day and stares at Shiro’s sleeping face.

 

Memories flash through his minds eye. He remembers begging Shiro to choke him with his dick. He remembers holding his legs open and pleading with Shiro to fill him. Keith’s face feels hot enough to rival the heart of the brightest burning star at the memory of him senselessly whispering for Shiro to breed him.

 

He hurriedly rolls over, taking a fistful of the blankets with him to hide his face into when he remembers the rough voice in which Shiro had reassured him yes, yes he would. And if the scratchy-itchy feeling of dried come between his cheeks and thighs is anything to go by, Shiro had fulfilled his promise _thoroughly_.

 

Behind him, he hears Shiro stir. Keith holds his breath, mentally chiding himself for feeling shy. After _everything_ they’ve done, why’s he feeling shy _now_? His heart trips over itself when he feels the mattress shift before a heavy arm drops limply against his waist. Keith’s breath hitches when he feels a sleepy sigh whisper past his ear.

 

But that’s all there is.

 

Keith slowly, shakily exhales before carefully turning his head. Shiro still fast asleep, body softly curled around Keith’s. Wearily, he runs a hand over his face and mutters, “What is _wrong_ with me?”

 

Shiro steadily breathes in, breathes out, and sleeps on in response.

 

Sighing again, steadier than before, Keith drops his hand on top of Shiro’s forearm. Another memory drifts to the surface when he turns to nuzzle the other man’s chin. Keith freezes, feeling a sharp ache deep inside of him as he remembers lying like this and sighing happily as Shiro empties himself deep inside of Keith. He firmly tells his libido to cool it because after the sex marathon he’s just had, Keith’s not interested in coming for _a while_.

 

A soft kiss pressing against the tip of his ear makes him start. “Awake already?” Shiro murmurs. The suggestiveness in his voice sends a shiver racing down Keith’s spine. And the hand that slides purposefully between his legs pulls a gasp from Keith.

 

“Sorry,” Shiro apologizes, “Don’t think I’ll be hard for a while. I’ll still make it good for you.”

 

Keith shakes his head, wanting to say it’s not necessary but Shiro’s touch is so _painfully_ tender. It’s like he knows exactly how sensitive Keith is, how fine the wire is between pleasure and pain. He masterfully keeps Keith on that middle ground, coaxing a gentle, deep, _dry_ orgasm out of Keith that leaves him dizzy.

 

Dark spots dance in front of his eyes. Keith lets Shiro turn him around, blinking dazedly up at the human’s gray eyes. He can see Shiro’s lips moving but can’t hear a thing. His ears are numb and buzzing with static. Keith slowly shakes his head, hoping it will help. It does a little.

 

Through a fog, he hears Shiro asking, “Do you want more?”

 

He shakes his head a little harder this time and rasps, “No. I’m good. _Sore_ but good.”

 

“Imagine how I feel,” Shiro snarks with a tired grin.

 

With a snort, Keith pats whatever part of Shiro he can (his ass, as it turns out, is the closest part of him within reach), and reassures him, “You’ve done very well keeping up with an omega despite the fact that your species do not have heats.”

 

“Thanks,” Shiro jokes in return. “Glad to know I was able to satisfy you.”

 

 _And then some_ , Keith can’t help but think as he stretches lazily against Shiro before relaxing, ready to sleep the last of his heat off. _You’ve satisfied me in more ways than you realize._

 

\----

 

There’s an adage Galran children are taught in their formative years, a lesson they’re expected to take to heart if they wish to succeed in society: don’t grow comfortable. Because when you grow comfortable in your situation, you’ve stopping paying attention to the dangers around you. And when that happens, your enemies will strike.

 

 _Damn Haggar,_ Keith curses as he stomps down the corridors. _Damn that old witch and her scheming ways_.

 

He hadn’t been paying attention. Keith had been too caught up in his happiness, too caught up in Shiro, in his fantasies, so much so that he’d forgotten his debt. No. That’s not entirely true. He’s been distantly aware and uncomfortable with his debt to Haggar. There were moments where they’d meet and Keith would brace himself, preparing for the crone to silkily ask him to repay the favor.

 

That’s where he’s made his most critical miscalculation: the assumption that Haggar would be straightforward in making him pay.

 

What angers him the most, is his own stupidity.

 

_Why did I think she’d approach me directly? After everything I know, everything I’ve seen her do, I should have expected her to attack from the shadows. That is her way. That has always been her way. What she wants, she just takes._

 

It’s all he thinks about on his way to Haggar’s lab. Keith needs to stay angry or else his emotions will give way to worry - worry for Shiro, worry for what the witch has got planned. His anger might even turn inward, scolding himself for not being smart. For not paying closer attention to Shiro. Maybe if he had, he would have caught on sooner that Haggar had been taking him out of his cell _regularly_ since their agreement.

 

Keith presses his lips together, fangs cutting into soft flesh, wondering why Shiro never said anything. Is he that untrustworthy? Did Shiro not think that he...

 

 _Don’t go there,_ Keith sternly tells himself, slapping his hand against the access panel as he arrives at his destination. _Focus on getting him back first. The rest comes later._

 

Keith storms through the ill-smelling lab in search of the hooded figure and his Champion. His agitation hovers over his head like a storm cloud, thunder and lightning crowning the dark clouds. The other Galra scattered around the lab jump out of his way, avoiding his burning gaze even as he yells for the witch to show herself.

 

 _Told you so,_ the viper-like voice in his voice smugly tells him. _It was risky to show direct interest in the Terran. Haggar’s probably turned him into a mindless, drooling robeast by now. If she hasn’t done that, she’s probably done something else equally terrible if not worse._

 

“Your Highness,” a druid approaches, “Mistress Haggar is busy. If there is something I coul-”

 

“Where is he?” Keith ignores the dark presence by his side, pausing in front of each experiment room to check for Shiro before carrying on.

 

The question echoes inside of him with every beat of his heart. It grows in volume and speed in his chest as he searches and searches and cannot find Shiro. While all druids wear the same expressionless, bird-like mask that reveals nothing, Keith doesn’t think he’s imagining its silent disapproval the deeper he goes into the lab.

 

Every so often, it reminds Keith that Haggar would not approve of his presence. He can’t give a _jir_ about Haggar and her approval when his Champion, _Shiro_ , has been brought to her lab _without his knowledge or consent_.

 

Eyes sliding over a gruesome autopsy, Keith keeps coming back to a single question: what had caught Haggar’s attention about Shiro? What interested her about Shiro that she’s brought him _multiple times_ to her lab of horrors?

 

Had her interest been birthed at the dinner table when he’d defended Shiro? Or was it when Shiro had won his fight and triumphantly raised the bold red favor in the air in a clenched fist? Or maybe it was the fact that Keith had picked _Shiro,_ a human, to be his heat partner rather than an alpha Galran.

 

Keith finds everything he’s looking for, Shiro and answers, in the next room.

 

Vertigo hits him in the face like a punch at the sight before him.

 

Shiro’s half-naked body is strapped to the table, his prosthetic arm open. There’s tubes, so many tubes with liquid flowing in and out of Shiro. A druid hovers over the elbow, holding delicate instruments that spark every time they touch something deep inside the arm’s mechanism. And at every burst of light, Shiro, despite being heavily sedated, lets out a pained moan.

 

“Is he awake?” Keith asks, horror coloring his voice.

 

Everyone in the room freezes. Except for Shiro, who raises his head to look at him and slurs his name. “Keith? Izzat you?”

 

His short temper is something he’s well known for. It’s also something Keith’s learned to control. But the swell of rage that rises up at him at the helplessness that bleeds from Shiro’s words is something he hasn’t experienced before. It takes control before he knows it - making him snap at the ‘researchers’ to unhook Shiro immediately. He swears coldly they’ll all pay for this, telling the tall Galra with a white mohawk to find him a gurney.

 

“I’ll be taking him back myself.”

 

As Keith helps Shiro off the table and onto the gurney, the druid hisses, “Haggar will not be pleased.”

 

“ _I’m_ not pleased either that she took Shiro without my permission.”

 

Despite the expressionless mask it wears, vague amusement seems to emanate from the druid. “Was that necessary? After all, all prisoners are the property of Lord Zarkon. And he has given her carte blanche to do what she needs to do to ensure our success.”

 

It may as well have poured a bucket of cold water over him. Keith ignores the druid and its words before turning to the nearest Galra. It’s the tall man with the white mohawk. “Take the gurney and follow me.”

 

He’s grateful that the man doesn’t say anything and quietly follows Keith out of the lab. Similarly, Shiro has fallen silent as well. As soon as they’ve turned the corner, Keith pauses to check on the human. Shiro’s face is pale and there’s new needle marks on his flesh and blood arm, but he’s alive. Asleep but alive.

 

 _But for how long_?

 

The thought sends a chill down his spine as he stares at the rise and fall of Shiro’s chest.

 

_I can’t protect him._

 

Are the walls closing in on him? Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?

 

 _He’s not safe. No matter what I do, I can’t protect him. If Haggar’s interested in him and Zarkon approves of whatever it is she’s doing, there’s nothing I can do to save him_.

 

Why in the name of Daibazaal can’t he _breathe_?

 

\----

 

While he’s no where near Lotor’s level, Keith’s a fair strategist. He’s found his way out of more than a couple of tricky spots over the years. It’s like what his earliest tutors had hammered into him: there’s always a way. Examine the situation carefully, look for a weak spot you can take advantage of, and formulate your plan accordingly.

 

Keith’s been thinking about Shiro’s situation for the past few days and nights and has nothing. In the meanwhile, Shiro’s been forced to fight another opponent and has been taken to Haggar’s lab twice. Any attempts to find out what she’s planning for him have met frustrating dead ends.

 

His clumsy efforts to ask Shiro have yielded nothing as well. The man remembers nothing, citing the cause to be a combination of the drugs and magic they use in the labs. Keith doesn’t push him either.

 

It’s late at night and Keith, yet again, cannot sleep. He’s taken to pacing around his room, growing increasingly frustrated that he can’t figure out what to do. All the available options are unacceptable.

 

Keith _could_ make a direct appeal to Zarkon, but he doubts the king will take kindly to a personal plea from his nephew about a single slave. That’s bound to raise more eyebrows than anything else. He cannot get rid of Haggar. Killing Shiro is also out of the question.

 

 _All that leaves is to take Shiro away from the crone_.

 

He rubs his hands over his face, exhaling his annoyance. That’s the best option he’s got in a bag of awful options - take Shiro away. The best case scenario would involve them getting into a ship and flying off far, far away from Zarkon and Haggar. But knowing the witch’s interest, she’ll tug on some strings and keep Shiro with her while Keith will be made to go.

 

 _I wouldn’t put it past her to try and get me out of the picture so that she can keep Shiro to herself as a lab rat_.

 

Keith comes to a halt in front of a window. He stares unseeingly at the stars and decides that that isn’t an option either. Which leaves one last choice open to him - arguably the most dangerous choice of all: Shiro needs to escape.

 

Keith must help him escape.

 

Sighing, Keith presses his forehead against the cold glass. It’s the only way, fraught with peril for both of them. If Shiro is caught, he’ll be executed without mercy. If Keith’s involvement is identified... who knows what they’ll do to him. Generally speaking, Galrans who betray the Empire are sent to the Arena to be slaughtered. But he’s a Prince. Zarkon would want to make an example of him, so his fate will surely be worse than the one faced by typical traitors.

 

Despair sticks his limbs to the floor. Every exhale makes the pressure weighing on his shoulders grow more burdensome. Keith squeezes his eyes shut and prays for someone, _anyone_ to send him an answer. To send him _help_.

 

“Or maybe give me the courage to go through with my crazy plan to grab Shiro, get into that red lion and fly away.”

 

Keith’s snort fogs up a spot on the window. Still smiling, he straightens up and turns towards the door. If he’s starting to humor those kind of wild ideas, perhaps it’s time to indulge in some physical exercise to tire his body and stimulate his mind. Maybe that way he could come up with a better escape plan for Shiro.

 

It’s two hours after dinner and most of the hallways are empty. The only areas of the ship which have a vibrant sense of life are the shared guard rooms and bedrooms, soldiers flowing in and out of the rooms as they get ready for bed. Keith walks past them, feeling strangely distant from it all.

 

He walks without thinking, letting his feet carry him wherever they will. Soldiers pause as he comes into sight, snapping a salute he lazily returns before walking on. Keith walks and walks and walks until it finally clicks where he’s heading.

 

 _Figures_ , Keith snorts. He looks down at his armor with a frown however, mumbling, “Should have worn a cape.” Without something covering the sigil on his chest, his identify is a dead giveaway.

 

_It’s no matter. If someone asks I’ll say I had to talk to Shiro about his next fight. No one will be any the wise-_

 

The thought goes flying out of his head when a heavy mass comes crashing into him, sending them both to the floor. Keith snarls, digs his claws into warm flesh before freezing. He stares into Shiro’s startled gray eyes and whispers, “ _Shiro_? What the hell are you doing?”

 

Grabbing Keith’s elbow, Shiro drags them both into the shadows before answering, “Escaping.”

 

“How’d you get out of your cell?”

 

“Ulaz, one of the the scientists from Haggar’s lab helped me escape. He took my restraints off and told me I needed to go back to Earth. There’s something there that Zarkon wants and he can’t get it. I need to make sure of that.”

 

His brain spins trying to keep up. Keith gapes at Shiro, wondering if he’s dreaming or hallucinating when the man hisses, “We gotta go,” and yanks Keith down the hall with him. Keith doesn’t resist. Rather, he’s the one who takes the lead when Shiro almost takes a wrong turn.

 

He yanks Shiro back and pulls him down a dark hallway, murmuring, “Docking bay is this way.” Shiro’s a step behind him, one hand on Keith’s back. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith sees him constantly looking over his back to make sure they’re not being followed.

 

 _Lucky for him I know most of the patrol patterns_.

 

They hide in the shadows, duck into dark doorways, and slink into empty rooms, avoiding every patrol they come across. Adrenaline has sharpened his senses to the maximum, his eyes and ears straining for the slightest changes. Keith’s keenly aware of how their boots scrape against the floor every so often despite their best efforts to be quiet. He hears Shiro’s breathing stutter when two guards _almost_ brush past them as they patrol. He squeezes the human’s hand harder, silently reassuring him that they’ll make it.

 

 _We have to,_ Keith grimly reminds himself as he mentally calculates how much distance is left between them and the docking bay. _Just a little more. We’re almost there. At this time of night, there should be minimal guards. There should be a fighter plane or two fueled up and ready to go as well. I’ll make sure the doors are open while Shiro gets into the plane. And then-_

 

For the second time this night, Keith finds himself crashing into a body as he turns a corner. Only this time, he’s crashed into an unexpected pair of guards. They go down with a startled cry, the guards yelling at them while Keith and Shiro scramble to grab their blasters. Keith gets an elbow in his jaw but he manages to grab the blaster out of the nearest guard’s hand and shoots.

 

By his side however, Shiro is less successful. Somehow, the guard manages to throw him off, the heel of his palm slamming up under Shiro’s jaw. Keith and the guard scramble to their feet together while Shiro groans from the floor.

 

They raise their blasters together, gaze locking. Time slows with a suddenness that takes Keith’s breath away. He sees the guard’s lips parting and realizes a second too late he’s going to sound the alarm. The realization that he needs to stop him before he does so has his finger twitching against the trigger.

 

He applies pressure, squeezing as he aims for the sentry’s heart. But it’s too late. Through a thick fog, he hears the soldier’s distorted voice alerting whoever is within earshot that a prisoner is trying to escape. The cry echoes down the hallway, bouncing off metal walls as a precursor to the strangled noise the soldier lets out as Keith’s shot pierces his heart.

 

Keith stares the dead men down, ignoring the fine tremor that’s taken over his right hand. The urge to toss the blaster and run is high. He reminds himself they need the protection before he forces himself to move. Keith staggers over to Shiro, yanking him up to his feet before saying, “We need to make a run for it. Stay close.”

 

It’s a losing battle. The chance of them escaping successfully now is practically impossible. The alarms are blaring. Keith can hear the sound of many feet running, of voices crashing together as they ask _where did the prisoners go? Go that way! We need to stop them!_

 

The docking bay is right ahead and yet, Keith can’t say the same for their escape. Against his back, Shiro gasps, “Keith! More soldiers!”

 

Keith glances over his shoulder before quickly tossing the blaster at Shiro. “Cover me,” he tells the man before making a run for the access panel that’s within sight. He hears the sound of many blasters firing at them and instinctively ducks. The shots go wide, hitting the walls and leaving behind large burns on the metal. Next to his elbow, Keith hears more shots being fired followed by the sound of a few guards yelling. Keith tries not to feel proud of his training and prays that none of the sentries wind up shooting the control panel. Because if that shorts out before Keith can get it open...

 

 _Don’t think about that. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about that,_ Keith repeats as a mantra as he crashes into the wall, his palm pressed flat against the access panel. _Come on, come on, come on, you useless piece of-_

 

The device beeps and the wide doors part for them. Keith could almost cry with relief when he sees no guards waiting to capture them on the other side. He drags Shiro in, yanking the gun out of his hand to shoot the panel as soon as the doors have closed again. The panel dies in a shower of sparks and a series of sad, confused beeps, but Keith doesn’t see it happen.

 

As soon as the shot is fired, Keith’s turning around, eyes scanning the wide hanger. The doors are open and there are ten guards. That’s more than he’d anticipated. By his side, he hears Shiro curse under his breath and ask, “Now what?”

 

Keith makes a split second decision and shoves Shiro towards the nearest ship. The guards have caught wind that something is wrong and are lifting their weapons. Keith aims at the nearest body, the one standing at the control panel and shoots. The guard crumples to the floor as the others dodge for cover. Another shot and the panel is a mess of wires and metal.

 

He gestures for Shiro to move, yelling, “Get on the ship. I’ll distract them.”

 

But Shiro stubbornly holds his ground, crouching behind a row of metal barrels. “What about you?”

 

He’s never been a good liar. It’s something Keith prides himself in, arguing that being truthful holds greater merit. In this moment however, as he meets Shiro’s wide gray eyes, Keith desperately wishes he was a convincing liar.

 

“I’ll find a way. To follow you. On a ship.”

 

Shiro doesn’t believe him. Keith sees it in his gaze. It’s why he tears his eyes away, darting down the stairs and drawing attention to himself. It wasn’t a complete lie. He’ll find a way to survive this.

 

As Keith hides behind a pillar, wincing as he narrowly avoids being shot, he reassures himself that the guards won’t try to kill him.

 

 _They’ll just maim me so that I won’t be able to put up a fight when I’m court martialed_.

 

Keith winces, waiting for the volley to pause so that he can return fire. He hears a ship’s engines firing up. The splutter-roar of thrusters coming to life pull the guards attention away from him. They yell at each other to stop the ship from taking off. Keith turns and fires at their backs, taking out another two guards.

 

Jumping out of his hiding place, Keith makes a run for the storage units stacked against the near wall. He blindly shoots at the guards over his shoulder, praying his mark is true. They return fire; most of the shots go wild, adding to Keith’s belief that they aim to neutralize him, not kill him.

 

But then a shot clips him in the shoulder. Keith cries out, falling back against the wall as his blaster clatters to the floor. His hand comes up against the wound, sending waves of pain shooting through his body. He pants harshly, eyeing the guards as they approach, blasters pointed at him.

 

Through their legs, Keith spies the empty spot where a fighter plane had been docked. One of the guards tells the pair next to him, “Get into your ships and get that slave back.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Keith staggers up to his feet, fighting the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm him. They can’t follow Shiro. He’s drawn the guards’ attention back on him, _all_ of them.

 

 _Good_ , he thinks hazily as he takes a step forward, bloodied hands clenched into fists. The guard warily circle him. _The longer I keep their attention, the better are Shiro’s chances._

 

\-----

 

The cell is quiet tonight. There’s only the soft sounds of the various alien slaves sleeping peacefully. No one’s having nightmares, no one’s stifling their sobs. Every single person in the cell is fast asleep, except Keith.

 

He tosses and turns in his corner, frustration rising with every satisfied snore Rikta lets out. No matter what pose he lies down in, Keith’s unable to fall asleep. He’s physically and mentally worn out and yet...

 

Insomnia isn’t something he’s ever had to struggle with, not even after he’d been tossed into this cell with the rest of Haggar’s test subjects. But of course he’d been told what Haggar has in store for him.

 

Since his capture and subsequent punishment - stripped of his title and rank and forced to fight like a common gladiator - Keith has wondered _why_. Why had he been allowed to live? What was she planning? Why hadn’t they killed him for letting Shiro escape, especially when Haggar had been so upset at losing her favorite test subject?

 

Tonight, after almost two weeks of silence, the witch had given him an answer.

 

A cold shiver runs down his spine as he remembers the meeting. After winning his fight, Keith had been taken to Haggar’s lab. Three druids guided him into an empty lab. They’d strapped him onto a table, drugged him, and ran the oddest physical Keith had ever been a part of.

 

He’d braced himself to be cut open and studied like a _grof_ and yet, all the druids seemed interested in was hooking him up with different machines and noting the readings down. He only learned the truth when Haggar came in.

 

The memory of her words sends a chill down Keith’s spine, making him reflexively curl into a ball.

 

“ _Did you think no one noticed your encounter with the red lion? That I didn’t know it responded to your quintessence?”_

 

He’d told the witch there was no way he’d do whatever it was that she wanted him to. Whatever she had planned for the lion, Keith wasn’t going to be a part of it.  Whatever Haggar has planned, it’s not going to be good.

 

Keith turns over again, facing the cell door this time. Worry twists his stomach into knots. He’d said to her face he wouldn’t be a part of whatever she’d planned. But Haggar’s answering sneer haunts him. She’d seemed amused by his argument, and had left soon after. Leaving Keith alone with the silent druids and their odd, intrusive tests.

 

_What did she mean by that? Is she going to use her magic on me? Somehow turn me into one of her mindless puppets, force me to do her bidding?_

 

His chest tightens at the thought. Who knows what Haggar’s got planned or what she’ll make him do? Keith has no idea where the lion comes from or what it’s capable of, but he knows Haggar. Whatever her plan is, it’s going to have disastrous consequences - for Keith, but also for the universe.

 

Is there nothing he can do to avoid his fate? Keith sighs deeply, opening his eyes to peer at the cell door. His only option would be to try and escape. But after Shiro’s loss, the guards have been twice as vigilant, and rough on the remaining prisoners. There’s no way Keith could escape. Not without help.

 

 _I should have tried to escape right after I’d been captured. Navi or one of the others could have helped me slip away_.

 

But it’s too late now. No one believes he’s still in this _quadrant,_ even. The public has been told that Keith has been exiled like Prince Lotor. No one would look at his pale skin, dark hair, and rounded ears and see the cold omega Galran prince from before.

 

Not that the other test subjects in the room pay attention to each other - it’s safer not to make connections when you’re not sure who’ll be dragged out to be a part of Haggar next cruel experiment.

 

_And whatever Haggar’s got planned, I doubt I’ll live long enough for anyone to figure out who I really am. Much less help me escape._

 

Not that he can find a Galra who’ll believe him, now. But the thought of just accepting his fate goes against his nature - he’s a fighter, and he refuses to be any part of her schemes. Keith scowls at the thin viewing window, wondering if there’s another way.

 

He’s wondering if it’s possible to overpower his guards the next time he’s taken out when a peculiar noise catches his attention. Keith lifts his head and frowns at the door. He strains his ears, wondering if he imagined the sound.

 

But the heavy thud comes again, causing Keith to leans up on his elbow.

 

 _That sounded like a body falling_.

 

Was it one of the guards? Who could be running outside? What’s going on?

 

The door chirps before it opens, as the metal door slides up, it spills light into the cell. Keith squints, shielding his eyes with his free hand. it isn’t necessary. His eyes grow used to the change, and blink at the mismatched pair standing in the doorway.

 

Both are wearing white armor with dark colored pauldrons. One is tall and broad-shouldered, the other petite and thin. It’s hard to see their features because they’re standing in front of the lights, faces cast in shadow. Judging by their posture and appearance, they don’t seem Galra.

 

_No Galra in their right mind would wear white armor. Might as well paint a bullseye on your back._

 

The shorter of the pair jumps into the cell with a triangular droid floating after her, yelling, “Matt? Dad?”

 

The cry rouses the other prisoners out of their sleep. Many of them sit up with a jerk, shying away to create a path. Keith’s eyes widen when he realizes this person is a Terran. Has to be. Worried eyes dart around the room, searching for their father and ”Matt”. When the stranger sees Keith, they rush up to him.

 

Frozen, Keith doesn’t know what to expect. He’s taken aback when this person crouches in front of him, holding a picture in their hand, and asks, “Have you seen this person?”

 

Keith stares the stranger down before slowly shifting his gaze over to the photo. It’s a boy and a girl hugging in front of a primitive spaceship. Keith’s about to shake his head and tell this stranger he hasn’t seen either of the two, when an eerily familiar voice rings through the cell.

 

“Pidge, we’ll have time later to ask these people about Matt and Sam. We’ve got to get them out of here and back to the Castle, pronto.”

 

Keith’s on his feet in a flash, hurrying forward to make sure he isn’t hallucinating. When the man turns his face, looking down the corridor, his profile is highlighted by the hall lights. Keith sucks in a sharp breath. The sound catches Shiro’s attention, pulling his sharp gaze back to the room.

 

There’s nothing in Shiro’s eyes at first. No recognition or familiarity. Keith almost staggers in his final steps. His throat is dry as a desert when he croaks, “Shiro...”

 

Dark brows, previously dipped into a heavy frown, fly up in surprise. Keith almost cries out in relief when Shiro takes a shaky step forward, asking, “ _Keith_?”

 

Keith grabs the hand Shiro’s stretched out like a lifeline, left hand to left hand. He squeezes Shiro’s fingers as hard as he can before asking, “What are you doing here?”

 

“It’s complicated. But long story short, we’re here to rescue you all and find something at the same time,” Shiro replies.

 

Shiro’s companion slides up next to them, lips twisted with disappointment. “They’re not here.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, with a slight frown of his own. “Maybe they’re in another cell.”

 

“There are a few more people in the cell next to us, but that’s everyone down here right now,” Keith offers.

 

Understanding sparks in Shiro’s eyes. His lips press into a thin line before he nods jerkily. “Pidge. Go check the other cells, and take everyone to safety. I’m going to go ahead and see if I can find the red lion.”

 

Keith’s head snaps towards Shiro, ears ringing. “What did you just say?”

 

“I need to find the red...” Shiro trails off mid-sentence, the confusion in his eyes sharpening to understanding. He grabs Keith’s elbow, urgency in his voice. “Do you know where it is?”

 

He nods, almost frantic. “I do. I’m sure I’m the pilot.”

 

That earns him a sharp look from Pidge _and_ Shiro. Keith shakes his head, stepping out of the cell. “I’ll explain on the way. Come on, I’ll take you to it.”

 

“Shiro, I’m not so sure about this.” Distrustful eyes run over him from head to toe before looking to the taller man. “Who _is_ this guy anyway?”

 

“He’s one of the guys who helped me escape.” Keith shoots Shiro a puzzled look. It’s not a lie but... that’s not the introduction he thought he’d get. Shiro’s either not noticed his surprise or is ignoring it. Either way, he stares Pidge down as he firmly says, “Keith saved my life more times than I can count when I was a prisoner here.”

 

Shame floods Keith immediately; Shiro’s making their experiences sound better than they were. In the days since his captivity, Keith’s thought a lot about their time together. He’s thought of all the ways he was selfish, and awful, and how he’d like to apologize to Shiro if he gets the chance.

 

 _Later,_ Keith hesitantly promises himself. _If we make it out of here alive, I’ll tell him everything. I’ll apologize, I’ll forfeit my life, I’ll do anything if he forgives my selfishness_.

 

Pidge’s gaze turns on him. The scrutinizing look pulls old habits up and make him snap, “ _What_?”

 

“How do you know you’re the red lion’s pilot?”

 

“I just do,” Keith answers defensively, arms crossed over his chest.

 

Shiro sighs, “Keith. Please.”

 

Scowling, Keith mumbles, “It’s a feeling I had when I first saw it.”

 

“What kind of feeling?”

 

He struggles not to roll his eyes at Pidge’s curiosity or snap back. Keith also struggles not to feel embarrassed when he admits in a low voice, “Like it was watching me.”

 

Keith’s ready for Pidge to laugh, to mock him. But brown eyes exchange a sharp look with Shiro before nodding. “Okay. I’ll get the prisoners to safety. You two get the red lion.”

 

Bewildered by Pidge’s sudden change in attitude, Keith opens his mouth to ask if that’s all it takes. But Shiro tugs him down the corridor. “Let’s go! We don’t have a lot of time.”

 

\-----

 

As far as holding cells go, this is cozy. It’s small, but well lit. And the bed is actually comfortable. It’s a far cry from the cell he’s spent the last two weeks in. There’s also enough room in here for Keith to practice with his mother’s knife, slashing at invisible enemies as he tries to stay in shape.

 

Keith would call it luxurious if the food wasn’t so awful.

 

He doesn’t have any way to tell the time but his stomach is starting to twist with hunger. That means it’s past lunch. It also means that Shiro should be coming down with some food for him.

 

 _Perhaps some actual food this time, and not more of that awful green goop that orange-haired Altean insists is food_.

 

Remembering that food goo makes Keith’s stomach gurgle. He frowns a little, focus cracking at the sound. Keith keeps his eyes closed however, intent on maintaining his meditative state despite his noisy stomach. But his stomach persists, letting out a series of embarrassing noises that make him sigh and give up.

 

Keith’s poking his stomach and grumbling, “Stop it,” as the main door slides open.

 

His insides greet the sight of Shiro and the plate of food with a low whine that’s loud enough to make the man laugh. “I guess you’re hungry,” he teases Keith.

 

As he stands up, Keith sighs, “Hungry enough to even eat that food goo and be happy about it.”

 

Shiro balances a wide plate stacked high with green goo in one hand and uses his free hand to ‘unlock’ his cell. The aqua colored forcefield shimmers. A rectangular opening forms at one corner of the forcefield, less than four footsteps away from Keith.

 

But Keith stays put, arms crossed and smirking as Shiro walks into the cell, explaining how this food goo is supposed to have all the nutrients that a paladin needs to be in peak physical condition. His amused disbelief doesn’t stop Shiro from holding the plate out towards Keith with a cheery, “Coran’s going to be worried you haven’t eaten.”

 

Keith can’t help but sigh in defeat, reaching out to accept the plate. The last time he hadn’t cleaned his plate, Coran had come down to worriedly inquire if Keith was feeling unwell, or worse, attempting a hunger strike. He’d been so startled by the man’s rambling assumptions Keith had wound up promising to eat whatever Shiro would bring.

 

As he sits down on the unmade bed, Shiro gingerly asks, “Can I sit?”

 

The food goo piled high on his spoon wiggles in surprise. Keith shrugs and sticks the goo in his mouth, spoon and all. With his free hand, he pushes his sheathed knife against the wall and smoothes the wrinkles out of the blanket before patting the open spot.

 

Shiro sits down next to him slowly, smiling a little as Keith scarfs his food down. “Slow down,” he teases with a small laugh. “It’s not going to run away.”

 

“The faster I eat it, the less I have to taste it,” Keith offers in retort, taking a deep breath before he raises his plate up to his mouth. He uses the spoon to tip the last few bites into his mouth, chews hurriedly, and swallows with a grimace. It’s the weird lack of taste with the chewy consistency that makes the food goo so hard to swallow, figuratively speaking.

 

He accepts the water pouch Shiro’s holding out and drains it in a few long gulps. His exhale is drowned under Shiro’s warm chuckle. Keith smiles faintly, holding the empty plate and spoon out. “Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Keith turns to sit facing Shiro, one leg on the bed. This is a typical part of his midday meal - Shiro coming down to sit with him and talk. Sometimes they talk about things that are important to the war: what Zarkon’s plans are, the location of important Galran ports, things like that. And sometimes, they chat about nothing important. So Keith waits for Shiro to broach a topic.

 

He waits patiently, watching Shiro lick his lips and glance over at his knife. _Ah_ , Keith thinks, a split second before Shiro says, “You never explained why we took a detour for that knife.”

 

“It’s the only thing I’ve got left of my mother.” Keith grabs hold of the knife. He shifts closer, unsheathing the knife. The brilliant stone and the design etched in it glimmer under the ceiling lights.

 

Shiro nods, finally understanding why Keith had insisted they take a quick detour on their way to the red lion during their escape. He glances up, silently asking permission to take the knife in hand. Keith nods, closing the gap between them.

 

They sit shoulder to shoulder as Shiro holds the blade and admires it. Keith, meanwhile, struggles to find the appropriate words to ask for Shiro’s forgiveness. He’s had so many opportunities, but Keith’s shied away from it. His excuse is he hasn’t found the right way to express himself but... Keith can’t let this go on. The weight of his guilt is too heavy.

 

As Shiro rubs his metal thumb against the blade’s edge, Keith awkwardly clears his throat. Shiro’s attention is on him in a second. He almost gives up, letting this conversation drift to an as of yet unidentified date. But Keith reminds himself of the kind of person Shiro is. He’s an honorable and kind man. He deserves better than that.

 

Licking his lips, Keith begins, “I wanted to apologize. For everything that happened to you.”

 

It’s such a relief that once he starts, it all comes out in a rush. Keith apologizes for everything that comes to mind and then some - for using Shiro for his selfish whims, for being unkind, for not respecting his wishes, for not doing more to help him. _Actually_ help him.

 

Keith maintains eye contact during his entire speech, voice quivering and softening to almost nothing by the time he arrives at the end. Shiro doesn’t say a single word the whole time. He just sits there, knife in hand, and listens patiently. It’s a struggle not to let his eyes dart down and see if Shiro’s got any intention to stab him, but _somehow_ Keith maintains eye contact.

 

He only looks down when the silence that follows his lengthy apology stretches too thin. There’s nothing more to say. It’s up to Shiro now, to forgive him or condemn him. And quite honestly? Despite the strange connection they share? Keith expects condemnation in its harshest form.

 

It’s what he deserves.

 

The blade reentering its sheath makes a soft noise that makes Keith flinch. There’s no way Shiro missed it. Keith licks the back of his teeth and misses his fangs. He clenches his hands into fists on top of his thighs and misses his claws as well. As much as Keith’s grateful for the fact that he doesn’t look Galran, he still-

 

“I can’t say it’s okay because it’s not,” Shiro’s quiet voice cuts through his drifting thoughts.

 

Keith bites his lips and tells himself he’s a fool for ever hoping different. His heart is beating painfully in of his chest. He’s worried that something might break. Or perhaps something has already broken and this is the aftermath.

 

Devastation.

 

But then a soft breeze whispers through the wreckage. Keith looks up in bewilderment when he sees Shiro’s hand creep into his vision and curl around his fist. Shiro’s smiling faintly at him.

 

“But I accept your apology.”

 

“You shouldn’t.”

 

“I do, though. Maybe you did start this thing between us because you were bored, and you were selfish. But you were kind to me. You reminded me what I was fighting for.” Shiro’s hand squeezes Keith’s so hard it sends tingles racing up Keith’s arm. “You helped me escape at the cost of your own freedom. That’s got to count for something.”

 

Keith can’t believe what he’s hearing. He shakes his head, trying to shake the white static from his ears as he asks, “You can’t just-”

 

“Too late. Already did.” Shiro smirks at him, amused. “I guess you’re going to have to prove you’re worth sticking my neck out for. That you’re a trustworthy ally.”

 

A disbelieving snort slips past his lips. For the first time since his escape, Keith feels the first stirrings of amusement. He shakes his head, asking, “Are you going to vouch for me?”

 

“I already did.” Shiro’s amusement fades away, replaced with a solemnity that automatically makes Keith sit up. “If we’re going to form Voltron, if we want to _succeed_ in defeating Zarkon and the Galra? We need to work together. We all need to trust each other. You have to be part of the team as much as me or Lance or Hunk or Pidge. Allura can’t realize that if she keeps you locked up in here.”

 

It’s hard to pin down the emotions in Shiro’s eyes. They’re encompassing and overwhelming. It’s the kind of nobility Keith’s never come face to face with. It steals his breath away. It makes him square his shoulders and nod firmly.

 

“I’ll do my best.” And with the smallest of pauses, continues. “To help you fight Zarkon, and to earn your trust again.”

 

A tiny smile forms on Shiro’s face. He’s secretly amused by something. Keith tilts his head, ready to ask what’s so funny when a careful hand rises up to cup his cheek. The tentative touch makes his heart race. And what little air is left in his lungs burns away when Shiro murmurs, “You’ve had my trust for a long time, Keith.”

 

Keith stares at Shiro’s tender expression. That tiny, _tiny_ flicker of hope he thought had been smothered suddenly flickers back to life. It catches against the bottom of Keith’s stomach, turning into a cozy fire that sends heat through every part of his body.

 

His palm burns hot as he tentatively returns the touch, grasping Shiro’s wrist and squeezing it as hard as he can, because Keith’s never been good at expressing his gratitude. Instead, he turns his face to kiss Shiro’s wrist and exhales, “I’ll be worthy of it. I promise.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story :)
> 
> If I've missed any tags please let me know!


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